Future without a past
by Leliha
Summary: A man is found with terrible injuries and absolutely no recollection of who he is and what happened to him... The idea has been used before - this is my version of how the story may develop. It includes SS and several OFCs.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

„Alright, give it a rest, you silly dog, I'm coming!"

Vivian Baker slammed her book face down on the armchair and got up. It was foggy outside, wet and chilly. Scottish summer, Vivian thought with a wry grimace as she shrugged into her jacket and put on her walking boots. The dog, that had been pacing the tiny hall, stood still now, looking at her expectantly. With a sigh she took down the leash and fastened it on the collar. Then she opened the door and they stepped outside into the damp evening air. The light was already fading, but she would still be able to do her usual round, starting at the footpath along the river. Drawing up the hood of her jacket against the drizzle she set off at a quick pace.

The narrow streets were deserted. Had all the other people walked their dogs earlier? Or were the other animals so well-behaved and undemanding that they didn't need an evening walk? As a matter of fact Vivian didn't like dogs very much; this one belonged to one of her friends and had come together with the cottage. Her friend was a script-writer and had managed to get hold of a job in Hollywood, asking Vivian to house-sit during her absence. She'd had nothing better to do; having just lost her job with a public relations agency as well as broken up with her boyfriend, Vivian's life was in shatters and she was glad for the change of surroundings. So here she was, transferred from busy London to a quiet and picturesque village in Scotland, sharing an equally picturesque cottage with a large Australian shepherd dog. She had arrived four days ago and at this particular moment the prospect of staying here for another six months to her was not a very alluring one.

They passed the last houses and came to the footpath, the softly murmuring river on one side, a stonewall badly in need of repair and behind that a large meadow on the other. The loud panting of the dog and the regular patter of his paws on the wet gravel were the only noises in the damp stillness of the night. Despite her waterproof jacket Vivian felt cold and quickened her pace in order to return to the warmth of her temporary home as quickly as possible. Suddenly the dog stopped in his tracks, making Vivian nearly trip over him. The animal stood perfectly still, his posture one of highest attention. Vivian pulled down her hood and held her breath to listen, staring into the foggy gloom of the meadow, but there was nothing she could hear or see. She gave the leash a determined pull.

"Come on, Hercules, it's nothing, let's go home," she said. The dog, however, living up to his name concerning strength, defied her attempts to move him and stubbornly remained where he was. Vivian pulled again – and nearly unbalanced, when the dog suddenly jumped over the low wall and vanished, taking his leash with him.

"Hercules, come back!" she shouted, furious about the dog's disobedience and her own failure to handle him. But the animal didn't heed her, she could see his shadow as he was speeding across the meadow.

"Shit!"

She scrambled over the wall and made after the dog, stumbling rather than running on the uneven ground. It was getting darker and darker and she hoped she wouldn't get caught in a rabbit hole and break her leg.

She could hear the dog bark a short distance to the right and changed direction. Another bark. Finally, panting and with painful stitches in her right side, she reached the animal and saw what had upset him so much. There was a dark shape lying on the ground. On closer inspection the dark shape turned out to be a man, dressed in swathes of black cloth, his face very white and, as far as she could see in the fading light, covered with blood.

"Bloody hell!" was all that came to her mind and it took her some seconds of staring and helpless indecision before she was able to react. She crouched next to the man and with trembling fingers touched his blood-stained neck, trying to find his pulse. It took her some time to ascertain that there still was one, albeit very faint. What next? First aid? Her mind was blank, she couldn't remember what to do in such a situation. Better stay away. Her fumbling fingers started looking for her mobile in the inside pocket of her jacket and she barely recognized her voice when she finally dialled and called an ambulance.

Then she resumed her helpless watch. They had told her not to touch anything, not to move the man, so she could only wait and hope that he wouldn't die before the arrival of the ambulance. It was very quiet, darkness had fallen, the nearly full moon partly hidden behind the fast moving clouds. The dog was sitting next to her, uncannily quiet and stiff.

Slowly she crouched and in the eerie light of the bright moon studied the man's face. It wasn't handsome. A large hooked nose, deep lines around the mouth and between the brows. Lines carved by what? Grief and sorrow? By angry scowls? Grimaces of hatred? Whatever it was, his life could not have been easy. How old? Hard to tell, anything between 40 and 50, she thought. And his clothes – she had never seen such an attire in real life. It looked as if it was some period costume. Strange, definitely strange. The man stirred, his face contorted with pain and he drew a shuddering breath, his right hand twisted briefly and then he fell quiet again. Vivian stared at the face in terror, straining her ears to hear him breathe, then putting her hand on his chest, feeling for the movement. Don't die, please, don't die, she pleaded silently.

Finally she saw the flashing blue lights approaching and heard the noise of cars moving slowly on the uneven, narrow footpath, yellow headlights bobbing up and down. And then the place erupted in noise and commotion. A doctor and paramedics busied themselves with the injured man, police started searching the area for traces of violence and questioned Vivian about her finding him. He was carried into the ambulance and Vivian heard the doctor say 'Crosshouse, Kilmarnock' and they were off. Vivian and Hercules were given a lift home by the police; the female officer asked her if she was alright and when she had assured her that she was she was alone again. Alone with the image of the pale, black-clad man in the dark meadow.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to all the kind reviewers and especially to those attentive readers who spotted the wrong name in the first chapter. I've corrected it. _

_Leliha_

**Chapter Two**

If later she was asked about her reasons for driving to Crosshouse hospital the following week, Vivian wasn't able to name any. There had just been this nagging urge to find out about the man's state of health. Was it pity? Concern? Curiosity? She couldn't tell.

In the car park she remained sitting in her car for some time, hesitating, debating with herself if what she was about to do would be a good idea. What did she expect from this visit? Profuse expressions of gratitude? Certainly not. It was just that she cared… Oh, well, she was curious as well, no doubt about that… But, hang on…Maybe he wasn't allowed visitors at all…Something she should have thought of in the first place… Whatever, she had not made the one-hour drive for nothing, so she would at least go and enquire about him.

Vivian had been asked to come to the police station to repeat her story for the records. Her questions concerning the victim's condition and identity had been met with polite shrugs and meaningless answers showing either the officer's lack of information or his unwillingness to share it with her. The man's case had been in the papers every day during the previous week, reports about his being found together with a police photofit of his face and appeals to friends and family to come forward and state his identity. After one week he was still unconscious and his identity remained a mystery, no one seemed to know him.

Vivian entered the hospital, ducking the cigarette fumes of patients in track suits and dressing-gowns unable to refrain from their habit and went up to the information desk.

"You can't see him," was the answer she received from the thick-set woman behind the counter.

"But I…"

"If you are family or if you think you know him you must speak to the police first."

Vivian inwardly cursed her naivety. She really should have known.

"I don't know him, but…"

"Then you can't see him. The instructions are clear. Otherwise you media people would be running all over the place."

"I'm not from a newspaper, I'm the one who found him," Vivian tried again, defending her integrity.

The woman was unimpressed.

"Interesting story – but you can't see him anyway. He's in intensive care, no visitors except family."

And with this she turned to the next visitor, woman with two small boys.

Vivian left the information desk and looked around reception aimlessly. So she would go back home. What else was there to do? The smell of coffee wafted through the corridors. Perhaps she could have a drink first? Slowly she followed the smell towards the café run by the Hospital Volunteers. It was visiting time and nearly all the tables and seats were occupied. Just another piece bad luck. Looking around, her mood reaching an even darker shade black, she noticed a sign on the opposite wall. 'Intensive Care Unit' and an arrow pointing to the left. She hesitated, looked around, but nobody was paying her any attention. Quickly she turned the corner and followed the sign until she reached a large double door. Opening it she found herself in front of another one, locked and with a buzzer next to it on the wall.

Without pausing for consideration she pressed the buzzer and a nurse dressed in green entered the glass cubicle next to the door.

"Yes, dear, how can I help you?"

"I'd like to see the man who was found in the fields near…."

"Do you know him? Are you family? Have you spoken to the police?" The nurse had a hopeful glitter in her eyes.

Vivian shook her head truthfully.

"No, I'm the one who found him."

The hopeful glitter vanished.

"Well, I'm sorry, but in this case you can't see him. He's still unconscious and we are not allowed to let people other than family or friends enter. It's procedure."

Vivian sighed. "I've come all the way from Girvan. I won't do him any harm, I just want to see how he's doing…"

Another green clad woman appeared in the cubicle and shot Vivian an enquiring look. A nurse of senior rank, judging from her age and the aura of authority surrounding her. The younger nurse explained the situation, casting meaningful glances in Vivian's direction, then the two women had what looked like a heated discussion. The older nurse studied Vivian for a moment, then went closer to the cubicle's round window.

"You are the person who found our mysterious patient?" she asked.

Vivian nodded.

"It's against the rules to let anyone else besides relatives see patients. He's still unconscious."

She paused, seemed to ponder something, looking from Vivian to the ward entrance thoughtfully.

"So far nobody has come forward to identify him. He's been so alone, so lonely…You know, I sometimes think he doesn't want to wake up, sees no purpose in returning to consciousness, so – perhaps if he had a visitor…"

Vivian smiled her eager agreement.

Ten minutes later she was dressed in surgical green, entering the small room with the single patient.

At first she was overwhelmed by the presence of the humming machinery and flickering monitors and it took her eyes some moments to follow all the tubes and cables and focus on the man in the bed.

To make access to his wounds easier they had cropped his hair thus displaying the pale thin face more prominently. An oxygen tube entered the large nose. The low neckline of the white hospital gown incongruously patterned with small, pale green flowers showed the heavy bandaging of his chest and neck. Sinewy arms, very white and covered with black hair, protruded from the short sleeves. The back of his right hand was covered with sticking plaster where a hypodermic needle gave a drip access to his veins.

His left hand had been left undisturbed, it was lying next to him on the sheets lifelessly. Vivian found herself staring at this hand. Somehow to her it represented all the pain, misery and loneliness this man might feel. This white, smooth, slender hand, long fingers, nails well-kept.

There was a chair next to bed, she sat down and after a hesitant moment picked up the hand gingerly, cradling it in her own, surprised that it was warm and dry whereas her own fingers were cold and clammy.

She was holding the hand, tracing the shape of the fingers, glancing at the man's still face from time to time, letting her thoughts wander, wondering about his person, his identity. He remained still, unperturbed, his breathing regular, as regular as the sounds of the machinery around him…

Vivian started when the nurse entered the room.

"Visiting time is over, dear. And we must renew the bandages, so you have to leave I'm afraid," she said with a smile. "But I'm sure he's appreciated your visit."

Vivian shrugged, unable to hide her disappointment.

"There was no reaction."

"No visible one you mean. But one never knows how much they really notice…"

Vivian returned the next day. After all there was nothing better for her to do. Having written and posted two dozens of job applications she had the whole day at her disposal and other than waiting for answers, walking the dog, cooking meals for herself and tidying up the cottage and its small garden there were no duties. So she spent another hour at the stranger's bedside, watching him, holding his hand, leaving obediently when told to do so by the nurses. And she was back the following day for the same procedure.

To be honest, she did hope for some kind of reaction, some facial movement, some flutter of an eyelid – but there were none. Only the low, constant noise of the machines that controlled his life.

She went to Glasgow over the weekend, visiting some friends, and when she returned on Monday, the nurse greeted her with an excited smile.

"He's awake," she beamed.

Vivian's mouth went dry with a sudden bout of nervousness. He was awake, how was she going to meet him, what was she going to say to him? Wouldn't he interpret her appearance at his bedside as a sign of her expecting gratitude for finding him? A reward even? Vivian swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Well, perhaps – if he's still weak he doesn't want visitors. I should better go…"

"Nonsense, dear. I've told him about you. His only visitor. He's a bit grumpy and disoriented, though, and says he has absolutely no memories of his life before waking in his bed yesterday evening. Doesn't even know his name. So he remains John Smith for the time being. The police have already been here questioning him, but without success. Perhaps you can jog his memory if you tell him something about how you found him."

So Vivian donned the sterile clothing once again and entered the familiar room. Some of the machinery and tubes were still on duty. But this time within the limit allowed by the bandages a head turned at her arrival and black eyes looked at her curiously.

"This is Ms Baker, the lady who found you," the nurse introduced her.

Vivian smiled sheepishly and made a step forward.

"Hiya, I'm Vivian."

The man blinked and swallowed.

"They call me John."

The voice was low and hoarse. The black eyes narrowed in a long, scrutinizing glance, which made Vivian feel uneasy and self-conscious. She fidgeted nervously, suddenly aware of her arms and hands and not knowing what to do with them. Her usual chair was still standing on the far side of the bed, but something in his demeanour held her at a distance.

She cleared her throat.

"I… I found you in a meadow near Girvan, or rather, my dog did," she said.

He raised an eyebrow, said nothing.

"It was almost dark and there was blood all over you."

Again there was no response. He kept watching her.

"Something terrible must have happened, a brutal attack, but there was no one around when I arrived and I think the police found no evidence of a fight."

Vivian stopped, looking at him expectantly, waiting for a response, some reaction which didn't come. The silence seemed to last forever. Suddenly the apparatus in control of the drip started beeping. Soon a nurse would appear.

"Trying to make me remember is a waste of time, Madam…"

"Vivian."

His lip curled disdainfully.

"If you insist. Vivian. I have absolutely no recollection of what happened or of my life prior to waking in this bed in general."

His voice was level, his face without expression. Slowly and painfully he turned his head away and stared at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry." A silly thing to remark, thought Vivian as soon as she had pronounced the words, but what else was there to say?

He seemed to share her thoughts because his lip curled again.

"It's not your fault." There was a sarcastic undertone in his voice.

Vivian took a deep breath. The atmosphere in the room was oppressive, she felt hot and uncomfortable, a trickle of sweat was making its way down her back, her armpits felt damp.

She regretted having come today, regretted having come at all. This was not a nice man. Oh, alright, something terrible had happened to him, he still was in pain, maybe under the influence of strong painkillers, but that was no excuse to be rude. She would go now, leave him to his fate. She had saved his life by finding him, she had done her duty; whatever would happen now wasn't her concern.

A nurse came in, started busying herself with the beeping instrument.

"I must go," Vivian said aloud and made a step towards the door. He didn't react, didn't turn his head.

"Bye, then."

She waited. No response. She left.

Outside in the corridor she stood still, closed her eyes and let out the breath she had not been aware of holding. This had been a disaster. Why did she have to give in to her idealistic sympathies in the first place? What use had her coming here been at all? A waste of time and petrol.

The voice of the senior nurse interrupted her self-reproaches.

"He's not of the social and friendly sort, is he?"

"And that's describing him euphemistically," Vivian agreed wearily. "Well, as he isn't interested in seeing me, I certainly won't impose my company on him again."

"Don't be so hard on him, dear, he isn't well."

Vivian only snorted, she felt utterly exhausted, too tired to respond verbally.

The nurse looked at her closely.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

Vivian nodded and attempted a smile.

"Yes, that would be lovely."

"I'll bring you one, you can sit down over there."

Vivian went to the a group of plastic chairs and with a grateful sigh accepted a mug of tea, inhaling the fragrance of the strong golden liquid deeply. It was hot, she could only take small sips and her mug was still half full when the nurse emerged from John Smith's room giving the corridor a hurried scan, smiling and waving when she noticed Vivian.

"He says he's sorry," she said with a conspiratorial grin. "He asked me if you were still around and would you mind coming back."

"What?"

Vivian nearly spilled the remaining tea. The nurse shrugged.

"He's really sorry, I think. It's up to you, of course, if you don't want to go back…"

Vivian exhaled deeply.

"Yeah, I know, but, well, I think, under the circumstances…he deserves a second chance. Thanks for the tea."

She handed her mug to the nurse and went across the corridor to the man's room.

This time she was greeted with something resembling a smile, to which, however, Vivian decided not to react. She made a show of standing just inside the door, waiting, her arms crossed in front of her chest, making it clear that it was his turn to start. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Madam…. Vivian, I apologize. My behaviour was uncalled for."

With his voice sounding so hoarse and weak, her heart melted instantly.

"Oh, alright, no bother."

He cleared his throat.

"They told me you had been here every day to visit me."

"Not every day, but on some days, yes."

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated, unsure of what to say. The reasons for her actions still remained a mystery to herself. So she made a show of laughing and shrugging light-heartedly.

"Actually, I can't tell. Call it curiosity. You don't stumble over injured men in dark meadows on a daily basis."

He accepted this with a doubtful frown.

"Tell me about it then."

Vivian stepped closer to the bed.

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

"No, of course not. Make yourself at home." Another ironic curl of his mouth. She decided to ignore it, went over to the chair and told him her story.

When she had finished he remained very still, staring at the ceiling.

"I have no recollection of what happened, absolutely none," he said quietly. "As you said there must have been a violent attack, an accident, whatever – but I remember nothing, nothing at all."

Vivian made a sympathetic sound.

"And what is even worse, I haven't got a clue who I am. I'm wracking my brain, but it's like hitting a wall, a wall surrounded by emptiness."

"I'm sure your memory will come back," Vivian said quietly.

"No one has come forward to say they know me, no friends, no family. What kind of person am I?"

He turned his head and looked at her. There was fear in his black eyes.

"I'm sure they just haven't seen the papers."

"And haven't watched TV, listened to the radio either? I understand that it was in all the national news."

Vivian flinched at the bitterness in his voice.

He noticed it and grimaced slightly.

"I'm sorry, it is rude of me complaining to you like this..."

Somewhere outside the bell announcing the end of visiting-hours sounded. Vivian cleared her throat.

"I must go."

He blinked in acknowledgement. She got up and pushed the chair back.

Their eyes met. She could see him swallowing hard.

"Would you… I mean if you are still curious…" he started hesitantly.

"Would you like me to come again?" she asked, her relief showing in a big smile.

"Yes," he whispered almost inaudibly.

"No problem. I'll be back tomorrow."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

And so she was. And almost every day after that. As his condition improved the man they called John Smith was transferred to a normal ward. He was given a private room to protect him from potential media intruders posing as visitors and from the curiosity of other patients.

His body responded well to the medication; what puzzled the consultants, however, were the violent cramps from which he suffered mostly at night and for which neither explanation nor cure could be found. Apart from that John Smith's wounds were healing nicely, but despite the efforts of the psychiatrists his mind stayed blank, not a single bit of his memories would return. The strange injuries and how he received them, his entire existence prior to his appearing bloodstained and injured in the field near Girvan remained mysteries unsolved. The police and the media had finally acknowledged defeat and put his case on a back-burner.

The nurses on the night shift became familiar with his bad dreams; he would often wake up screaming, disoriented and drenched in sweat, but was unable to recall what these dreams had been about; although he remembered the sensation of horror they induced in him, he could not describe the horrors he had seen.

One day he asked about the use of the bedside media console and when the nurses explained its divers functions to him, they were surprised to learn that while he could understand perfectly well what the TV and telephone were about, he had absolutely no clue of what to do with the computer and the internet. Had he somehow missed the last thirty years of technological development or just forgotten about it? Again nobody could come up with an explanation, this ignorance remained just another part of the puzzle that was John Smith.

The more his strength increased the more impatient he became with the state of his existence.

When at last he was able to leave his bed and asked for his clothes it turned out that they had been soiled and torn beyond repair and he was handed some basic items of clothing provided by a charity institution. He started walking – uncertain, tentative and supported steps from bed to bathroom at first, then the length of the ward and finally all the way to the café, the hospital entrance and beyond. When he returned from these excursions, exhausted, tired but with the satisfaction that this exercise had contributed to making his body stronger, he watched TV, read the newspapers and magazines Vivian gave him, all the time hoping against hope to finally find some information that would provide him with a clue of what had happened and who he was.

Each sitting with the psychiatrist, each appointment with the social worker left him even more depressed, the future as he could see it was bleak. His body would function all right, but he had no identity, no home, no job – there was no position for him to fulfill, he was useless, he would be a burden to society.

Not that he ever complained when Vivian visited him. He just became more and more withdrawn and taciturn, letting her do most of the talking – small talk about life in her village, the antics of Hercules, the dog, the new job she would be starting in Edinburgh the following month. And all the time she was desperately trying to boost his confidence, to reassure him and if he didn't respond she was just sitting with him in compassionate silence.

As much as she would have liked to help him she had to acknowledge that there was nothing she could do.

And one day when she came to the ward they told her he was gone. Had discharged himself and left, with nothing but the clothes on his back. The police kept looking for him, but he seemed to have vanished from the surface of the earth…

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._

_This was a short chapter, sorry; I promise that the next one is going to be much longer._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Look, Sue, it's him again, our professor."

The young man in the blue uniform of the museum wardens pointed at the monitor. His colleague angled her head and made an affirmative noise.

"Has anybody complained yet?"

The woman frowned thoughtfully.

"As far as I know – no," she answered, her eyes still on the monitor.

"Then let's give him half an hour. It's awfully cold outside today and as long as his presence doesn't disturb anybody… Can you do a round, letting him know we're watching things?"

With a deep sigh Sue stretched her arms above her head and left the small control cubicle. Her colleague continued watching the monitor.

The weeks before Christmas weren't a very busy time at the National Gallery of Scotland, people were interested in the glittering decorations of shop windows displaying potential Christmas presents rather than the museum's famous collection of Scottish impressionists. The shabby looking man with the bulging old backpack was one of the few visitors in this section of the ground floor. Slowly he strolled from painting to painting, reading the information, studying the pictures closely. Finally he retreated to one of the wooden benches in the middle of the room and sat down. But his rest was a brief one only: As soon as Sue entered the room he got up again and resumed his tour. For the last few weeks he had been a regular visitor. During the winter months the museum, offering warmth and shelter from the rain and wind, became a favourite haunt of the small number of the city's homeless who didn't feel daunted by the multitude of cultural artefacts and the solemn atmosphere of silent contemplation.

Nevertheless, some of the other visitors often complained about the presence of these people, feeling irritated by their appearance and smell. The man with the rucksack had been the cause of such complaints before, although apart from his worn clothes and greasy hair he looked as if he paid some attention to cleanliness and he didn't give the impression of having a drinking problem. In addition he behaved as if he was familiar with the surroundings and possessed some knowledge of art and therefore the wardens had given him his nickname und usually allowed him some time before approaching him and asking him to leave. He always followed these requests obediently.

So this time Sue continued her round, taking her time, even when another visitor drew her attention to the homeless man. Half an hour before closing time she finally addressed him, quietly and politely, as she had been trained to do.

"Sir, I must ask you to leave the premises."

The man looked at her – black eyes in a pale and haggard face – and nodded. He hoisted his backpack and with slow, tired steps turned towards the exit.

Sue watched him, feeling pity for him somehow. How had he got into his present situation? Wasn't there anybody who could help him? Didn't he have friends or family? She sighed deeply. Why did the so-called welfare state fail to help people like him? How could they slip through the net of social security? Soon it would be Christmas, the festival putting friends and family into the centre of attention. How would this man feel about it, knowing that luckier people in their festively decorated homes were sitting down to sumptuous Christmas dinners with their families and no problems other than making their digestion cope with the intake of food and drink and pretending interest in the stories Grandpa Joe had been telling on every Christmas Day for the last five years?

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_

_Thanks a lot to all those dear readers who sent reviews. I know I promised a longer chapter this time - well, I was wrong, but the next chapter is on its way... _


	5. Chapter 5

**Five Five**

Meanwhile the man had reached the entrance hall and was hesitating in front of the door, bracing himself for the confrontation with the bitter cold outside, when the wing of the door was pulled open energetically and a woman rushed in, intent on some last minute art experience. She managed to come to a stop just before she could bump into him and their eyes met.

"Sorry," she said automatically, then paused and looked at him more closely, puzzlement in her expression.

For a moment they stood perfectly still, frozen in mid-movement. He was the first to tear himself away, muttering something about 'no problem' and hastily pressing past her, out of the door, down the steps, determined to get away before she would remember.

There was a bitter wind beating across the square; today nobody was lingering here, enjoying the view of the Castle or sitting on the broad steps in front of the museum, people were hurrying, eager to get out of the wind and into the warmth of a pub or the comfort of their homes. Without decreasing his pace the man extracted a woollen hat from the pocket of his coat, pulling it over his untidy hair. From the other pocket he took a pair of gloves and pulled them over the fingerless ones he was wearing all the time. After a quick glance over his shoulder which showed him that the woman was standing on the steps, squinting against the thick, wet snowflakes, looking for him, he hurried on, bent forward against the wind and the driving sleet, aiming to reach Princes Street and disappear in the crowd of shoppers.

He passed the brightly illuminated, festively decorated shop windows, glancing at them with unseeing eyes, he passed hundreds of people, people in a hurry and with determined expressions on their faces, negotiating carrier bags through the crowd, couples sauntering leisurely along the shop window fronts, talking and laughing, youngsters in thick quilted jackets and hoodies, standing together in boisterous groups, men and women in cashmere coats, carrying briefcases and laptops, talking into their mobiles, exchanging news with friends or facts and figures with business partners.

The man didn't heed them, he was lost in his own thoughts, walking on and on, reaching the darker and lonelier parts of the city. Vivian. The name was dancing in his head to the rhythm of his steps. Vivian – what on earth was she doing here? Oh, yes, of course, he remembered, she had said something about a new job in Edinburgh. But what were the odds of actually meeting her like this? She had been a friend of sorts back during his time in hospital, she had cared for him and he had enjoyed her company, had liked her…But in his situation, how could he have kept up this friendship? Sooner or later she would have got tired of him and his problems. And now his situation had not improved a bit. He still didn't know who he was or where he belonged, allowing himself to be driven through the streets of the city like a leaf carried away by the wind. He didn't want her to see him like this…He would have to be more careful in the future, running into her again like this simply wouldn't do…

It was late when he reached the narrow street. He stopped and looked around. Had he really wanted to come here or had chance directed his steps? He studied the plain brick facade of the house in front of him. It didn't reveal the purpose of the building. He had heard of it many times, but had always been reluctant to come here. He preferred to keep to himself, and rely on himself alone and it had worked – so far. But now, with this cold weather… As little as he valued his miserable life, the prospect of freezing to death in some windswept doorway wasn't very alluring.

A dark figure approached the building from the other end of the street, stopping in front of the solid wooden door and pressing the bell-button. The door opened, spilling a puddle of light onto the pavement. The figure vanished inside. As simple as that. A gust of wind attacked the narrow street. The man shivered. He had no choice, he didn't want to die from the cold.

Slowly he crossed the street and reached the door. Behind it there were warmth, light, a hot meal. He took a deep breath and resolutely put his gloved finger on the bell-button. A loud ringing sound from within was followed by steps and then the door was opened, revealing a narrow, dimly lit hallway and a plump young man dressed in cargo trousers and a baggy jumper.

"Hi there, welcome. I'm Sven"

"John", the man answered automatically, numbed by the warmth surrounding him, waiting self-consciously, hoping for a clue what to do next.

"Is it your first time here?" There was a friendly smile on Sven's open face.

John nodded.

"I'll give you the tour and explain everything," Sven said enthusiastically, "come with me."

He had a foreign accent. German? Swedish? Dutch? John couldn't place it.

They entered a large room completely devoid of furniture.

"This is where you can sleep tonight. Have you got a sleeping bag?"

John nodded. They passed the room and entered another one, furnished with long wooden trestle tables and benches. A TV screen in the corner was showing some sports event with the volume turned down. Dozens of men were sitting here, all their worldly possessions in various sorts of backpacks and carrier bags next to them on the floor.

"Dinner is served in half an hour," Sven explained. "Toilets and showers are over there, through that door."

One hour later, John was sitting on one of the benches, a cup of tea and last day's paper on the table in front of him. During dinner some of the others had tried starting a conversation, but John's answers had been so monosyllabic and his manner so uninviting that they had given up soon and left him alone. There were more like him, sitting by themselves, staring at the table tops in front of them or at the TV screen in the corner. Some were reading old papers and magazines. Others seemed to know each other well and were talking or playing cards.

John felt good. For the first time in weeks he was warm, had been able to shed two layers of clothing. His stomach felt comfortably full after a large bowl of thick lentil soup and two large slices of brown bread. He had taken a shower which made him feel incredibly clean. The washing-up noises from the kitchen mingled with the murmured basso continuo of the men's conversation, Sven could be heard answering the phone in his small office. John was feeling pleasantly tired, he would go to sleep soon, looking forward to his first warm and dry night in weeks…

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	6. Chapter 6

_Dear reviewers, _

_thank you very much for the positive feedback. It is very much appreciated and as a reward for your efforts I'm posting the next chapter now, before going away on holiday. ...  
_

_Leliha_

**Chapter Six**

The pain woke him, hitting his body, attacking his limbs, holding his muscles in a fierce, unrelenting grip. He stiffened, breathing shallowly, willing the pain to go away. But a minute change of position made it return with a vengeance and he was unable to suppress a loud moan. Soon he was drenched in sweat, overcome by a new explosion of pain, his sinews knotted and tight as bowstrings, his muscles hard as rock. He had a vague impression of someone moving next to him, of someone talking to him, but the pain was too strong, eliminating his perception of the world around him. The commotion increased, there was light, the intense, unsteady beam of a torch; hands were on his shoulders. Carefully he tried to shift his legs. The pain reacted immediately, making him cry out in agony. Someone fumbled with the zipper of his sleeping bag, eventually managing to open it; hands touched his body, his cheeks, his brow. Voices – men's voices, one of them belonging to Sven, but also the treble counterpoint of a woman's voice.

"His name's John." Sven.

"John, can you hear me?" The woman's voice, warm and low. Again a hand smoothing his brow, cool and calming.

"It's his first time here, he looked alright," Sven explained.

"John?"

The hands on his legs, soft massaging movements, the female voice speaking, uttering quiet, meaningless sounds. He felt the pain recede, his limbs loosening slowly, muscles relaxing – and opened his eyes.

The woman's face, spotlighted by the torchlight, framed by the black and white veil of the nuns, looking concerned.

"John?"

He tried to answer, but out came only a hoarse moan.

"What's wrong? What's the matter?"

It took him a long time to clear his throat.

"Cramps," he finally managed to say.

The nun nodded and continued massaging his legs. He closed his eyes again, breathing deeply, trying to relax.

"Are you better now; do you think you can you get up?"

Slowly, supported by Sven's arm, he struggled into a sitting position. His shirt was soaked with sweat. All around him there were other men, some still lying in their sleeping bags, some sitting up, watching the scene curiously with more or less pitiful glances. It was so humiliating. Why had the cramps attacked him tonight of all nights, when he was in the company of others?

The nun seemed to understand his feelings, she squeezed his arm gently and helped him stand.

"Come with me, I'll see what I can do for you."

Supported by her arm, he left the room with slow, shuffling steps, fearfully expecting the return of the pain. They crossed the hall and entered a small infirmary room, containing a cot, a chair and a cupboard. She asked him to sit down and draped a blanket around his shoulders which he accepted gratefully. He was cold now, shivering uncontrollably, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering.

The nun opened one of the cupboards and took out a large tin.

"I'll be back soon," she said with a smile and left. Sven came in, carrying John's belongings. He put them on the cot, smiled and went out again, yawning deeply.

John stared at his backpack with unseeing eyes. He was exhausted, incredibly tired. The pain was still there, had receded to its lair in his thighs, lying dormant at the moment, but ready to strike again if woken up by a careless movement.

Shortly afterwards the nun returned, handing him a steaming mug.

"Herbal tea. It will help you relax and get some sleep."

John took the mug, relishing the warmth in his hands, inhaling the fragrant steam.

"Melissa, camomile, valerian," he heard himself say without understanding where this knowledge had come from.

The nun stared at him in surprise.

"You're an expert?"

He shrugged and shook his head wearily.

"I'm sister Mary Claire, by the way. I'm the doctor here."

She sat down on the cot opposite his chair.

"Have you suffered from these cramps before?"

He nodded, taking a sip from the mug.

"For how long? Do you know what causes them?"

"For six months," he answered tiredly. "And no, I don't know where they come from and the doctors don't know either."

He took another sip of the tea. He didn't like the taste of valerian and camomile, but the hot liquid felt good in his parched mouth.

"And before that?"

"Madam…" he hesitated, unsure of how to address her.

"Sister Mary Claire," she corrected him quietly.

"Sister Mary Claire", he took a deep breath, "my present life started six months ago, I haven't got any memories of the time before. I don't know who I am. I woke in a hospital bed, badly injured, and they named me John Smith."

"No memories at all? Nothing? Now, that's unusual."

There was professional interest in her voice; he couldn't hear any pity. Thank God for that, he knew he wouldn't be able to cope with mindless pity.

"No memories at all. Sometimes there are flashes, feelings, images caused by something I see, hear or smell," he raised the mug in explanation. "Sometimes I have dreams, nightmares – absolutely confusing things, nothing I can remember after waking up, they make no sense – nothing makes sense."

"And there is no chance of finding out who you are?"

"The police have tried. There was nobody who knew me."

"And then they simply let you go?" She frowned doubtfully.

He shook his head with a wry grin.

"No, they didn't. I simply went. I didn't want them to fuss over me and arrange my life."

Their eyes met, she held his gaze for a long time. In the end she rose with a small sigh and took a brown bottle from the cupboard. Opening it she held it out for him to take.

"Can you tell me what this is?"

"Sage, hyssop and thyme," he said without thinking. "Can be used in a cough syrup."

She nodded her approval and gave him another bottle.

"Fennel, aniseed, caraway seed," he hesitated briefly, holding the bottle closer to his nose, "peppermint and lovage…"

He met her challenging gaze and smiled.

"Indigestion," he said, "good against winds."

He shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

"I don't know where it comes from. I just seem to know these things."

Sister Mary Claire nodded, studying the label of bottle she had put down on the worktop in front of her and tapping a slender forefinger against the tip of her nose.

"John," he said slowly, "you obviously do have some knowledge of herbs and their qualities. What about practical or mechanical skills?"

He looked at her helplessly.

"I really don't know. I have no idea of my abilities. I may have learned some trade, I may have a university degree – I don't know."

His despair and hopelessness were tangible.

"The reason I'm asking…."

She laughed and shrugged.

"Our convent needs a caretaker, a man for all the odd jobs around the house. Besides, we're growing herbs in our garden and use them for herbal remedies. This is Sister Agnes' area of expertise, but she is very old, suffers from arthritis and could do with some expert help. Are you interested in the job?"

He stared at her, unable to respond. Was he interested? In a job? Interested in being needed? How could she ask such a question?

His hesitation was misinterpreted.

"The order can only offer modest payment, as you can probably guess, but you'd get free board and lodging into the bargain."

"Sister Mary Claire;" he cleared his throat, cringing inwardly at the thought that she believed him to be so choosy. "Sister, I really would like to accept this offer if you think I could be the right person. But – as they say – you'd be buying the pig in the poke. I have no certificates, no references, I can't even offer you a CV."

She shoved his objections away with a quick wave of her right hand.

"It isn't easy to find someone reliable for the job. It has been vacant for six months, ever since George, our old caretaker, had to retire after a stroke."

She grinned broadly, pointing at her chest.

"I do have a feeling, deep in my heart, that you are the right person. Our Mother Superior must agree, of course, I've got an appointment with her tomorrow anyway and I'll tell her about you and ask her."

John Smith rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. He felt like in a dream, everything happening in slow motion, all his perceptions muffled by layers of cotton wool. With an enormous effort he forced himself to keep his eyes open and focus on the woman sitting in front of him. She returned his gaze with calm and friendly patience. An ageless face, surrounded by an inch of greying dark hair under the small veil.

"You are tired," she stated and got up. "It's the aftermaths of the cramps and the effect of the tea kicking in. Would you like to sleep in here, on the cot?"

He nodded mutely and handed her the empty mug.

"Good night, John."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	7. Chapter 7

_Dear reviewers, thanks a lot for all the positive feedback for the last chapter. I'm back from the holidays now and hope to be able to update regularly._

_Leliha_

**Seven**

"John! God bless you. How are you? I've heard that you are settling in nicely."

Father Matthew had stopped at the last pew and greeted the man sitting in front of him with a benevolent smile that caused the old priest's rotund face to glow with joy and made his bright blue eyes twinkle with delight. He took John's hesitating hand in his and squeezed it heartily.

John swallowed hard. There was something about this smile, these twinkling eyes and this white hair falling in soft waves down to the priest's shoulders that made his stomach contract violently and stabbed his mind with diffuse splinters of memories. But as usual he was unable to hold on to them or put them together to create a meaningful picture. With a sigh he resigned himself once again to the inscrutable blankness that was his past and answered the priest's smile with his own, much weaker and less practised version.

"That's fine," Father Matthew beamed, his soft Irish voice underlining the good-will of his words. "We're so glad to have found a successor for old George. And, what I personally am most happy about, we have found someone who isn't afraid of joining us in the House of God – something George could never be persuaded to do."

John smiled wistfully. He visited mass every Sunday, always sitting in the back, listening and watching, hoping that the hymns and the rites would mean something to him, would evoke some memories. This hope, however, had not been fulfilled so far. He still felt like a stranger in the midst of the other churchgoers, only the neo-Gothic vaults and pillars of the church building seemed to create a feeling of familiarity somehow.

Father Matthew's pastoral instincts made him realize that something was troubling the other man and with an effort he heaved his ample paunch into the pew next to John.

"I have noticed that you don't participate in communion," the priest said quietly. "Don't be afraid, consider yourself invited."

John shook his head thoughtfully.

"I don't know. Something keeps me from joining in, I can't explain it."

"If your reluctance is due to the fact that you don't know if you are a member of the Catholic church, don't worry."

Father Mathew put a reassuring hand on John's arm.

"In your case I'd be perfectly willing to turn a blind eye and neglect such legal formalities."

A little smile of appreciation appeared on John's face, but he sighed and shook his head sadly.

"Perhaps you would like some instruction in our faith or just talk about it? You are an educated man, John, I'd really be interested in discussing some of our dogmas with you. Or perhaps it would help you if you went to confession?"

At this John couldn't help laughing.

"Father Matthew, sorry, but what is there I could confess? The sins I may have committed within the last twelve months are hardly worth troubling God with. And as for the time before – my memories are gone, if I have sinned I don't know anything about it."

The priest blushed.

"I'm sorry, that was thoughtless of me."

John accepted the apology with a wry smile and a shrug of his shoulders.

"I've been told that you do your work excellently," the priest continued, eager to amend his faux-pas.

John raised his hands in a gesture of modest depreciation.

"You must be a man of many skills and interests."

Again John shrugged.

"I don't know. I find that I like to read and the library here is well-stocked. And my many skills," he laughed softly, "I've become rather fond of DIY handbooks. They teach you everything, from unblocking sinks to repairing sockets. You just have to be careful and follow instructions. And as for keeping the garden paths tidy – anybody can do that."

"Your knowledge about herbs…"

Simon exhaled loudly and shook his head.

"I have no idea where it comes from, it's a kind of automatism or instinct."

He sighed.

"I've learned to accept my situation. I must start my life from scratch, and I'm really grateful that Mother Mary Barbara has offered me a chance."

Father Matthew nodded and smiled, sending another jolt to John's stomach. Those eyes, those twinkling blue eyes, each one sitting in its intricate net of laughter lines – what forgotten images and sentiments did they want to wake?

"John, we're so glad to have you and I'm sure you'll make the best of this chance. And if there is something you want to talk about don't hesitate to approach me, in or outside the confessional."

With a final smile the priest rose and went through the aisle towards the altar and the door leading to the vestry.

After a moment John got up, too, and left the church through the back door. It was lunch time but he wasn't hungry. He would go to the laboratory instead and check on the experiment he had started with Sister Mary Agnes' consent three days ago: Some modifications on an anti-snoring tea they had created together soon after his arrival. It worked by strengthening the velum. They had it tried it on Sister Mary Cecilia, whose snoring noises were legendary and kept the whole wing of the building awake at night. The tea had been a success, but the taste was absolutely dreadful and needed improving.

Humming tunelessly in anticipation of some enjoyable hours in his favourite surroundings John opened the door and nearly bumped into Sister Mary Claire who was standing behind it studying the boxes and jars of herbs and essences on the nearest shelf.

"Hiya, John," she greeted him.

"Hello," he answered cautiously, his voice and his features not quite able to hide his annoyance at someone interfering with the expected peace and solitude.

"Aren't you supposed to be at lunch?" he asked.

"Aren't you, too?"

John shrugged.

"I'm not hungry."

Sister Mary Claire laughed.

"Neither am I. It's haggis pie today and I hate it. Besides – I need some supplies for the infirmary and had an inkling that I would find you here. And of course I'd like to ask you about your cramps."

"I'm sure that could have waited till tomorrow. The convent routine for Sundays includes contemplation and…"

"Oh, give it a break, John. Everybody knows that I'm not very much into convent routine and contemplation."

She grimaced and he couldn't help smiling.

Sister Mary Claire had told him that she had worked as a doctor in Kenia for most of her adult life. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of forty-eight she had to return to Edinburgh for surgery and chemotherapy. The medical treatment had been successful but the order had preferred not to risk sending her back to Africa as much as she would have wanted to. So she stayed in the mother house, offering free medical help to the city's homeless in the infirmary and helping out in Sister Agnes' laboratory from time to time; however, the independence she had experienced in Africa made it hard for her to adapt to the well-ordered life in the convent. This earned her some half-hearted reprimands from time to time, but the Mother Superior valued Sister Mary Claire's work too much and usually tolerated her little eccentricities which included spending much of her time talking to the new caretaker.

"So, has the treatment had any effect?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"It somewhat reduces the frequency and the violence of the attacks."

Sister Mary Claire reacted with an exasperated sigh.

"This is absolutely frustrating. I have no idea what else we could do. I wish we knew what causes these cramps."

John shrugged.

"I can't help you there."

"I know. But isn't it unfair? You've found a means of relieving us from Sister Mary Cecilia's snoring, and I can't do anything to really help you."

"You've done enough," he said quietly. "You've given me a new life."

"And in return you've added a lot of excitement to our lives," she replied with an impish grin.

"Sorry?"

"Haven't you noticed? We're all very much in love with you!"

He stared at her.

"In love? With me? Because of my good looks? My charming personality?"

"Well, yes…"

He snorted angrily.

"No, wait, John, I mean, look at the other men available. There's Sven…"

She made a meaningful pause. Sven, slightly overweight, bravely trying to disguise his blooming post-puberty acne with a sparsely growing beard.

"Peter…"

Another gap-year volunteer. Ginger curls, freckles, his extreme short-sightedness forcing him to wear glasses that reduced his eyes to the size of pinpoints.

"…and Father Matthew, of course."

Eighty if he was a day, afflicted with a wheezing cough acquired in long years of passionate chain-smoking, his enormous girth almost making it impossible for him to tie his shoelaces.

John grimaced wryly.

"Right. I admit that among these competitors I may count as an Adonis. But what about Lasse?"

Another volunteer, a student from Sweden, tall, fair-haired, tanned and with the body of an athlete.

Sister Mary Claire laughed.

"Don't tell me you haven't realized? Women are always attracted to the dark, brooding stranger with the mysterious past rather than to the fair-haired and charming hero. We are no exception to this rule. Take Sister Mary Agnes, for example. She more or less claims you as her property and is talking about your excellency day in, day out."

John felt his cheeks become hot and he turned away, looking out the window. Sister Mary Claire continued with her enumeration, obviously enjoying herself tremendously.

"Sister Mary Elizabeth is ever so glad of having found a fellow bookworm and constantly praises your deep insight in classical literature. Sister Mary Renata practises the organ for hours on end because you once said that you enjoyed her playing Baroque music. She has mastered Bach's Toccata in d-minor by now and is starting with the Fugue. Sister Mary Constance watches every morsel you eat, has made a list of your favourite dishes and it is her highest ambition that her cooking will make you put on some weight. The Mother Superior can't help smiling with pride whenever she sets eyes on you and myself – well, I'm following you around disturbing your peace on a Sunday afternoon."

She crossed the room and stood next to him so that she could see his face.

"No, seriously, John, we are very glad to have you here."

His cheeks were slightly pink and his voice wouldn't quite co-operate when he turned towards her.

"What about the things you need for the infirmary?" he asked gruffly.

She smiled and took a folded sheet from her pocket.

"Here's a list.

He snatched it from her and scanned it.

"I'll get everything."

While he busied himself with selecting the items on her list and putting them into a small cardboard box, Sister Mary Claire entertained him with the latest convent gossip. John, however, was only listening with half an ear. He concentrated on the warm feeling that had spread inside him. He was happy. It didn't matter that his present life was barely twelve months old, that he had no recollection of the decades before, that sometimes he caught himself staring into his bathroom mirror, asking himself who this awkward, taciturn man with the hard face dominated by the large nose was. They accepted him at the convent, he was welcome, he was part of this community, he felt needed.

"Are you looking for something in particular? Shall I help you?" Sister Mary Claire asked and he suddenly realized that he must have been staring at the same corner of the shelf for several minutes.

He shook his head vigorously, turned and answered her enquiring look with one of his rare smiles that softened the usual harshness of his features.

"No, thank you, I'm fine."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Lunchtime. Vivian clicked the door shut and, exhaling with vehement relish, switched off the never-wavering professional smile she had worn during the meeting with her client. After two hours of nerve-racking, petty and futile discussions about some minor points in her concept she felt in desperate need of nourishment and caffeine now and was looking forward to a visit to her favourite café. It was only a short drive away, en route to the office, and served several varieties of tea, coffee and hot chocolate, delicious cakes and mouth-watering soups and sandwiches at lunchtime.

But when she arrived at her car she found it blocked by a white van, double-parking, rear doors open, apparently delivering goods to the small shop whose dusty window advertised herbal teas, candles, exotic jewellery and what looked like homespun and hand-dyed clothes. Vivian didn't feel in the mood for entering the cluttered interior, so, hoping for the driver to come out soon, she unlocked her own car, dumping her laptop and her shoulder bag on the passenger seat. Then, leaning against the car, she waited, tapping her fingers against the metal of the door impatiently, deciding that if the driver didn't appear within the next two minutes she would go into the shop to ask for him after all. She looked at her watch. Forty seconds to go…

The glass door opened, accompanied by the tinkling sounds of a wind chime, and a man hurried out, waving at her, smiling an apology.

Vivian stared at him, blinked, her mouth fell open.

"John?"

He stopped short.

"John!"

Vivian pushed herself off the car and made a few steps forward.

"Don't you dare do a runner again," she said reproachfully.

The shocked consternation on his face gave way to a wry smile.

She was now standing in front of him, extending her right hand which he took after some hesitation.

He has changed, changed for the better, was the first thing that came to her mind. Not the frail patient any more, nor the ragged homeless tramp, but a healthy, confident man. His face had lost its sickly pallor, his body appeared fit and strong, his long hair was tied back into a neat ponytail.

Vivian stared at him, unsure of how to go on. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him: Why had he disappeared from the hospital, why had he run away from her at the gallery? However, something told her that most probably instead of receiving answers she would scare him away with too much bland curiosity.

"Well, it's nice to meet you," was all that finally came to her mind and she was cringing inwardly at the banality of the phrase. How convenient, she reflected self-mockingly, that civilized society provides a supply of conventional platitudes to fall back upon in stressful situations.

His mouth twitched. She was still holding his hand, willing him to stay, and at the same time perfectly aware of the fact that if she didn't want to look utterly stupid she would have to think of something more to say, something more original and meaningful than this opening remark.

"I… I was on my way to get some lunch. Would you like to come, too? I mean,…" she gestured towards the van, "if you have time and, uh, of course, if you are hungry… My treat, by the way," she added, unsure of what his financial situation was at the moment.

She was smiling uncertainly, biting her lip, waiting for an answer and half expecting it to be a negative one. His dark eyes rested on her pensively for a moment before he finally broke into a brief smile and nodded.

"Why not. If I can find somewhere to park the van properly."

They looked around and coincidentally at this moment a car vacated a parking space a few yards further down the street, so he jumped into his van and took it there, parking kerbside skillfully. Quickly he returned to where Vivian was waiting for him in her own car, shrugging into an old black leather jacket while walking. He got into the passenger seat and closed the door. Vivian started the engine, signalled and they were off.

During the few minutes' drive to the café Vivian managed a few trivial comments on the traffic to ease the tense and nervous silence. Only after they had reached their destination, had found a table near the window and placed their orders with the elderly waitress did Vivian dare throw caution to the wind and gave in to her curiosity.

"Is it still John?" she asked conversationally, trying very hard not to sound too breathless with excitement.

"It's still John," he answered quietly.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged.

"It can't be helped."

"You look well, though."

"I am well."

"Your injuries…?"

"Healed. Just a scar and some stiffness around the neck and the occasional cramps and spasms. But Sister Mary Claire's treatment is dealing with those quite well."

"Sister who?"

He laughed softly at the surprise in her voice.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot. You don't know about my new life. I work for St. Mary's Convent in Long Street, you may have heard about it. They offer food and shelter to the homeless. I went there to escape from the cold on the night I …we… met in the gallery and miraculously ended up with a home and a job. I'm the caretaker."

"Oh," she swallowed, "this is… amazing…wonderful. Do you like it?"

"Yes, I really do," he said with so much warmth and conviction in his voice that she couldn't help smiling.

"The delivery – is it part of your job?"

"Yes, it is. Several shops in the city sell the herbal remedies, tea mixtures mostly, we produce as a contribution to the convent's income."

He started laughing.

"Can you imagine? I even had completely forgotten how to drive a car. I had to take lessons again and get a driver's license."

Vivian smiled sympathetically.

"It was just one of the many things I had to learn," he added thoughtfully. "Fortunately they are very understanding at the convent."

"I'm sure you are very good at your job," Vivian said, toying with the edge of the table mat.

"It was the only option I had to get off the street, of course," he remarked in a sober tone, leaning back in his chair and letting out a deep breath..

"But I really enjoy the work, and I've found a place to live and people who accept me. What else could I expect? And this isn't like the charity I would have received had I stayed at the hospital."

He was leaning forward again, his elbows on the table, his voice intense.

"I'm useful, they need me and my work."

Vivian nodded, a lump of emotion in her throat making a more verbal reaction impossible.

Their orders arrived: Soup, cake and cappuccino for Vivian, tea and sandwiches for John, and their conversation switched to the more innocuous topic of the quality of the food and drink. Slowly the tension lifted like fog in the sunlight, Vivian started feeling at ease. John asked her about her own job and she entertained him with some anecdotes about office life and her clients. He listened attentively and laughed in all the right places and when Vivian had finished her soup and started with the slice of rhubarb cake she decided that this was by far the most pleasant lunch she'd had for weeks.

"I'm glad you've found a new life, John," she said, skimming some milky froth off her cappuccino and licking it off the spoon, all the time watching him surreptitiously. The new life seemed to suit him well, there was a lively glitter in his black eyes that had not been there before. But she was aware of the fact that beyond the surface of small talk it felt like speaking to a complete stranger; suddenly she wasn't just ignorant about his past, she also didn't really know about the circumstances of his present life. What was life in a convent like? Could a normal man be happy there? How did you behave around nuns? Could you be friends with them? Were there other men living in the convent as well? Did he…

"A penny for your thoughts," he said with an ironic chuckle.

"Sorry?"

"You've been sucking this empty spoon for several minutes now, a far-away look in your eyes. So, what is bothering you?"

Vivian blushed.

"I'm just wondering what life in a convent is like," she admitted meekly.

"Oh. Well, the convent is a very close-knit community," he obliged willingly.

"And as in every community there are rules and people who take them very seriously and others who try to circumvent them occasionally. All in all it's a very peaceful and well-ordered life, but there are also problems from time to time, there are sympathies and antipathies among the sisters, support and friendship, but also resentment and gossip. Well, apart from the fact that sex isn't an issue and religion is the centre around which everything else revolves, life in a convent is just – normal, I'd say.

"What are the nuns like?"

He grinned and shrugged.

"Well, as I said, normal. All of them have jobs, many are very highly qualified. Sister Mary Claire for example is a doctor. Apart from that – they have the same good and bad traits of character as you and me. Most of them are rather old, the others middle-aged; there is only one novice and she is in her thirties already. Joining a convent is not a popular option among young people nowadays."

"So it's only the nuns and you living there?"

He burst out laughing. Vivian felt her cheeks grow hot again.

"No, not quite. There are some young men doing a gap year, two of them from abroad. They help running the hostel and the soup kitchen. And there is Father Matthew, of course, the priest."

Vivian nodded, but her smile had a rueful touch. So he was content and happy – good, absolutely, he deserved it. But, having stumbled across him again, she would have liked a place for herself in his new life and couldn't help regarding the convent as an obstacle. It was not that she considered herself an atheist. She had been baptized as a baby, still saw herself as a member of the Kirk although she had not been to a service for at least twenty years, not even at Christmas. But the Roman Catholic faith with its dogmas of celibacy and papal infallibility, with its ban on modern birth control and abortion, the veneration of the Virgin Mary and the custom of adding to already existing myriads of saints by still canonising people was something entirely different for her, something far away from her pragmatic, sober, Presbyterian outlook on life. In fact it was something she had always connected with major conflicts in history rather than with the course of everyday life. Convents were just another one of those anachronisms, although some of them undeniably fulfilled useful tasks in society. Even if John thought a convent was 'normal' – for her it was about as alien a territory as the planet Mars. She couldn't imagine herself visiting John there, seeing him in this intimidating, incense-laden atmosphere, surrounded by females wearing unbecoming habits.

A soft cough interrupted her musings.

"I'm afraid I must go now. I've got work to do," he said and looked at her with his unreadable dark eyes, his long fingers distractedly following the shape of his mug handle.

"So have I," Vivian sighed, tearing her attention away from his eyes and his fingers and glancing at her watch. "I must go to the office, but I'll give you a lift back to your van first."

"No, thanks, don't bother, I'll be alright. I like walking."

It didn't sound like an excuse, however, Vivian didn't want him to leave her like this.

"John, I...," she felt herself blushing, picked up her bag and started fumbling with the zipper. "Perhaps we could meet again?"

It was a question rather than a statement. She looked at him. Their eyes met. A ripple of emotion crossed his face, but it was brief and had vanished before Vivian could decide what exactly it had expressed.

"Here's my phone number and my address." She placed a small white visiting card on the table in front of him.

He picked it up, studied it briefly and looked at her, his face expressionless now. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it and just nodded. Then he pushed back his chair, got up and picked up his jacket

"Thank you," he said brusquely and then he was gone.

Vivian gathered her bag and her jacket and slowly went over to the counter to pay, forcing herself not to be overly disappointed and wondering if he would ever contact her.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The elderly lady in the dark green suit was one of the last passengers to get off the train at Waverley Station, groaning slightly as she arched her back. A three hour journey confined to a narrow seat in a crowded carriage, surrounded by families with small children who were constantly threatening to be sick or were throwing tantrums if their parents wouldn't cater for their desires instantly or with sulking teenagers shutting themselves off from the hostile parental world with earphones incessantly emitting scrambled drum patterns, an English couple regaling their fellow passengers by discussing their marital problems at length, and several groups of foreign tourists exploding in enthusiastic, incomprehensible comments on the passing scenery every few minutes.

It was torture; the kind of torture she inflicted on herself whenever she visited her younger sister, which, fortunately, wasn't very often. Too different were the worlds they inhabited. For these visits, however, one had to get into the right mood and start out in the appropriate kind of transport; and of all the possibilities on offer the train was by far the most acceptable one.

The lady adjusted her square, dark-rimmed glasses and smoothed her dark, greying hair, checking the position of her severe bun with her free hand; then, tucking her handbag under her arm and leaving the platform, she was on her way to the taxi stand.

Thirty minutes later she was sitting in one of the two overstuffed armchairs in her sister's study, a reviving cup of tea and a slice of home-baked cake on the coffee table in front of her. It had been more than two years since their last meeting and the two women both studied each other surreptitiously while making mental notes of how deeply time had engraved its traces in the other's face.

"From your last letter I deduce that you have managed to overcome your troubles?"

The visitor nodded and smiled. A smile reflecting relief and satisfaction.

"Oh yes, Diana, we have."

The younger woman flinched slightly at the sound of this name. She could never accept her older sister's stubborn insistence on calling her by the name her parents had chosen.

"I told you about the return and the growing influence of You-know- …uh…Voldemort, the wizard who had schemed to make himself immortal and take over the rule of the wizarding world, didn't I? Well, he has been defeated again and destroyed once and for all, his followers are either dead or in jail and our world is slowly recovering from his tyranny and from the devastations of the war. Our school's re-opening this summer was another step towards normalcy."

"And you are the headmistress?"

Her sister nodded proudly.

"Yes, the ministry has officially confirmed my appointment in June."

"Congratulations, Minerva, you must be very happy now indeed."

The other woman frowned sadly.

"I wouldn't say I'm very happy. Too much has happened, there was so much pain and sorrow. I'd rather Albus was still alive and headmaster in my stead, and then there are all the others who suffered terrible losses or who died during Voldemort's reign and in the final battle, innocent families, students, brave and honourable wizards."

She sighed heavily.

"And as far as… my predecessor is concerned…I still can't help blaming myself for my blindness and stupidity."

Her voice failed her and she quickly took a handkerchief from her bag, dabbed at her eyes under the spectacles and blew her nose resolutely.

Her sister made the soft appropriate noises of sympathy, although she had never been able to really understand the world her older sister had been encompassed in from the age of eleven. Minerva had always been a bit strange as a girl and involved in quite a few inexplicable incidents during their childhood, but nobody had thought them of any significance. Until one day in early summer this young man had arrived at their house, with his long auburn hair and beard, dressed in a gaudy velvet suit… He had been overly polite in a curious, old-fashioned way, had bowed to her parents and kissed her mother's hand and had introduced himself as Albus Dumbledore, teacher at the wizarding school, Hogwarts…

Their parents had been too overwhelmed with surprise to resist Dumbledore's arguments. Minerva had gone away to boarding school in September, and from then on they had seen her only at Christmas and in the summer holidays, half of which Minerva preferred to spend with her new school friends' families rather than with what she called her Muggle relatives.

Later Diana herself had shocked her liberal, atheistic parents by joining a religious order and becoming Sister Mary Barbara, and contact with her sister had been reduced to the occasional letter and a visit once every few years. The information about the wizarding world Minerva had volunteered had sounded unreal, exaggerated, overly dramatic, too much like the excesses of a fantasy writer's vivid imagination for her sister's taste. Witches and wizards, house-elves centaurs and giants, wands, potions, curses and spells…magic…it was all so contrary to her own life and Christian faith. And this Voldemort-story – whatever upheaval it had caused among wizards, the non-magical world had hardly noticed anything, having its own problems to worry about: British soldiers dying in wars in remote corners of the globe, the growing threat of terrorist attacks and, for the convent the most immediate one, the increase in poverty. With another economic crisis on the way and property prices climbing to astronomical heights, the number of unemployed and homeless people queuing for a free hot meal had increased tremendously.

"Well, Diana, I know you've never quite trusted my world," Minerva commented on her sister's sceptical face.

Her sister shrugged.

"I'm willing to believe that it exists," she said dryly. "But you know my point of view perfectly well. You claim that you can do magic, this gives you the means of helping mankind, of doing some good for the whole world instead of hiding and keeping to yourselves, nurturing a power-hungry maniac who has tampered with his soul and ceased to be human."

Oh Merlin! Minerva let out an exasperated sigh. Helping – this was the chorus her sister had been singing for forty years whenever they had seen each other. Helping other people was the purpose of Diana's life and the reason why she had become a nun in the first place.

"The fact that we keep away from the Muggle world is mainly due to the behaviour of your church in the past, as you very well know. And we didn't nurture Voldemort, we fought him and destroyed him," she corrected her sister. "And helping other people – that's your area of expertise, isn't it?" she added, and couldn't quite keep the irony out of her voice.

Her sister answered with an impatient sigh, but said nothing. She wouldn't rise to the bait, this would not become another one of their regular arguments. She got up and was looking out of the window. What she saw made her smile.

"Yes, you're right. That's our area of expertise and sometimes we are successful."

Her voice had lost the angry undertone and was full of excitement. She signalled to her sister to join her at the window.

"Do you see the man over there? Such a sad story. He had an accident and has suffered from amnesia ever since. He has no memories at all and no idea who he is. He was sleeping rough. We were able to offer him a job and a place to stay."

The two women watched the man walk across the courtyard, carrying a toolbox, Minerva was adjusting her glasses, feigning interest in her sister's enthusiastic report.

"He's a real asset to our convent. He's intelligent and very skilled with his hands, and his knowledge of herbs is extraordinary."

The man came closer, walking with a purposeful stride. He was dressed in faded jeans and a checked flannel shirt worn open over a black t-shirt, his long black hair was tied in a ponytail.

A sharp intake of breath made the nun look at her sister curiously. The older woman had become deathly white in the face and was leaning heavily on the window sill.

"I don't…I…no…Severus," she whispered. "Oh sweet Merlin! Severus! Severus Snape! But that's … impossible. He died…"

"What?"

"This man… he is Severus."

"He doesn't know his name. For us he's John."

"John! Rubbish. That's Severus Snape. His face…I would recognize this nose anywhere. And the way he carries himself is unmistakable. Oh Merlin! We believed him dead. I've no idea how he…I must talk to him!"

She turned and ran out of the room. Her sister followed her.

"Wait, Minerva, be sensible, he won't recognize you! He has forgotten everything!"

But the other woman was already halfway down the corridor and making for the stairs. She was running down, taking two steps at a time, making her sister stare after her in surprise at the rejuvenating effect John Smith seemed to have on her older sibling, who was now pushing open the door that led to the courtyard and was greeted with an angry shout and a half-swallowed oath.

Outside she found herself face to face with the caretaker. Too surprised at finding himself suddenly opposite an obviously agitated, totally strange woman, he was lost for words and just scowled at her, holding a screw-driver in one hand and with the other one rubbing his arm where it had made violent contact with the door.

Minerva stared back at the angry man, trying to regain both her breath and her composure. It was him, despite his un-wizard-like clothes; it was his typical scowl, it was definitely him, Severus Snape, her former pupil, her colleague, her predecessor as headmaster of Hogwarts, whom during his last year of life she had believed to be a traitor and a coward and despised with all her heart while in reality he had sacrificed everything to assist the wizarding community against Voldemort and save the school from the excesses of his minions.

Overcome with surprise and joy she forgot everything her sister had told her about the man's memory loss. She made a step forward and grabbed his arms.

"Severus," she said, her voice hoarse with emotion.

The man stiffened.

"Excuse me, Madam?"

"Severus, don't you remember me?"

"I'm sorry Madam, I…"

"Minerva, I've told you that he has amnesia," her sister interrupted impatiently from the doorway.

The man looked from the strange, oddly behaving woman in front of him to the familiar figure of Mother Mary Barbara, his face showing bewilderment first, then the beginning of understanding and finally alarm.

"Mother Superior, what does this mean?" he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The nun stepped forward, smiling nervously..

"John, this is my sister, Minerva McGonnagal. She is a… well, she says she knows you."

"She knows me?" John repeated in a flat voice, his eyes darting back to the woman who was still holding his arms and was now nodding vigorously. He had become very white and the hand that held the screw-driver was trembling.

The Mother Superior sighed.

"John, it's a long story and some of its details require rather lengthy explanations, I think. Why don't you come upstairs with us, have a cup of tea and listen to what she has to tell you?"

John carefully wound his arms from Minerva McGonagall's excited grip and bent down to put the screw-driver back into his toolbox. When he looked up again, there was an expression of grim determination on his face.

"Very well, I'm ready, I'm coming," he said and snapped the lid of the toolbox shut.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Stop it! Spare me this fucking shit!"

The man had jumped to his feet and was standing with his back to the fireplace now, shaking with fury, his face livid and deathly white

"I may have lost my memory, but that doesn't make me a fucking imbecile that can be fed this bloody fairy-tale nonsense!"

The two women stared at him, aghast at this violent outbreak. Mother Mary Barbara was the first to recover. Slowly she rose and approached the furious man, who refused to meet her eyes. Very gently she put a hand on his arm.

"John, please."

He looked at her as if he wanted to say something extremely rude, but thought better of it and just shook her hand off with a violent jerk.

The Mother Superior sighed.

"John, we've known each other for some time now. Do you think I would make fun of you or deliberately lie to you?"

She met his angry glare and patiently held his gaze until he slowly relented with a shuttering breath and reluctantly shook his head.

"My sister is telling you the truth. She really is a witch, I've witnessed her performing magic several times and I've met some of her friends. The wizarding community does exist alongside our normal one. They usually do not reveal themselves to our side, but that doesn't make them less real. Believe me, it came to a shock to our family when we first learned about Minerva's…talents. We've never told anybody outside the immediate family, even for our grandparents, uncles and aunts Minerva had just won a scholarship to study at a boarding school in a remote corner of the country. Most of the time we just tried to ignore the whole thing."

The man raised his head and his eyes wandered from one woman to the other, for the first time noticing the family resemblance. Minerva McGonagall's features were sharper, her face more lined than her sister's and she carried less weight, her eyes appeared very keen and shrewd behind the square glasses. All at once he was overcome with the impression of a very sharp wit and vague images of battles of intellectual banter over cups of tea or glasses of wine in front of a blazing fire…

He exhaled slowly, suddenly feeling very weak, and returned to his chair.

"Would you like some fresh tea?" the Mother Superior asked, her voice full of concern, but he declined with a brusque movement of his head, staring at the cold fireplace, tracing his thin lips with his long forefinger, unaware of the fact that Minerva McGonagall was watching him with an affectionate, fascinated smile of recognition.

After what seemed like an endless stretch of silence, he focused on the two women again.

"I'm a wizard, I worked as a teacher and was a double-agent, and I killed someone," John Smith summed up the gist of the witch's report, forcing his voice to sound neutral and cool, but still not quite able to suppress his sarcastic disbelief.

"I cannot help but admit that there are some facts that correspond with your assertions, Madam…"

"Minerva, Severus."

"…for example when you mentioned the separation between the magical world and the normal – what you call the Muggle – one. This would explain why no one could come forward to identify me. My being a wizard would also account for the existence of a strange, polished, splintered wooden stick among my effects, which could have been a wand, I suppose. Nevertheless, your story is still too fantastic for me to belief, Madam…"

"Do call me Minerva, Severus," the witch interrupted again.

"…Minerva, unless you can come up with some proof of what you've just told me."

"But I can. We have your memories, Severus," Minerva answered, seeing him flinch at the name.

"What have you done with them?" her sister asked suspiciously. According to her knowledge about wizards there was no trickery base enough to be put past them.

"We have just stored them in a safe place, Diana," came the exasperated retort. "Severus gave his memories to Harry Potter to help him defeat V…Voldemort. Harry watched them in a pensieve and they have been kept safe and undisturbed ever since. We all believed you dead, Severus, what with the students' report of the snake ordered to attack you and the Shrieking Shack being blown to pieces…"

"There was an explosion? But surely…"

"Haven't I mentioned it before? During the battle the fights briefly centred around the Shrieking Shack and the concentration of magic was too much for the old worm-eaten hut. There was a noise like a violent peal of thunder and a bolt of lightning and the building vanished in a shower of splinters."

Minerva McGonagall frowned, took off her glasses and polished them with her small white handkerchief.

"Now that I come to think of it – this must have been the reason why you survived. A powerful jolt of magic restored enough energy in you to bring you back to life and at the same time your body was catapulted to the place where you were found. Unfortunately it also robbed you of your remaining memories."

She put her glasses back on, looking at him fondly.

"Naturally we assumed that your body had been…uh, destroyed in the explosion. But obviously… well, you cannot always predict the effects of raw magic. There are some very unusual examples described in Aemilius Applecore's volume about…"

The man interrupted her with a snort of indignant disbelief. Abruptly he got up and went over to the window, turning his back on the two women and staring out at the cloudy sky. In the room there was silence again, none of the three people moved, outside the clouds became darker, there were strong gusts of wind and raindrops began splattering the window panes.

Suddenly he turned, narrowed his eyes and asked, "These memories – you mentioned that they are kept somewhere. Does that mean there is the possibility for me to have them back?"

"Yes, Severus, of course, by all means. I must tell the others that you are alive – Merlin, it will be such a surprise; and then the ministry can arrange the use of a pensieve, where you can see the memories and restore them to your mind."

Minerva McGonnagal beamed at him, relieved that he had finally decided to accept her story, her glasses were slightly askew with excitement, strands of hair escaping from her bun.

"Severus," John said slowly to himself, exploring each syllable, trying to become familiar with the name. Then he looked up and stared at the two women defiantly.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather you kept calling me John for the time being. I'm used to it and see myself as John rather than as Severus whom I don't know."

Minerva McGonagall looked slightly disappointed, but her sister eagerly nodded her agreement.

"No problem, John. You'll stay here and remain John for us. There is no need to tell anybody about what we've found out just yet."

"Thank you, Mother Mary Barbara."

Her sister cleared her throat impatiently.

"Be that as it may – I must go back to Hogwarts at once and contact Kingsley Shacklebolt at the ministry. He can organize everything. You won't have to go to London, there's a Scottish Ministry of Magic in Edinburgh now and a Scottish Minister. All the formalities can be completed here. And Harry Potter must be informed, too. He has always felt guilty about not being able to help you and has the right to be one of the first people to learn about your survival. I'm sure they can come to Edinburgh as soon as possible. Merlin! This will cause a sensation in our world! When your true motives and the extension of your sacrifices became known you were declared a war hero posthumously, Severus. Now everybody will be beside themselves with joy, gratitude and reverence when they learn that you are alive."

"No!"

John crossed the floor in two large strides and grabbed the witch by her arm, causing her to cry out in alarm.

"I don't want any of these. I'm not a hero, Madam…Minerva. I want to be left alone and live in peace."

The witch frowned.

"But people must learn about your being alive…"

"No, they certainly needn't learn. I understand that my existence must be revealed to your authorities if I want to have a look at the memories, but I absolutely refuse to become a celebrity."

Square-rimmed glasses flashed at him indignantly.

"But we… oh, yery well, Severus…"

"It's John!"

"Very well, John, whatever you want. I'll contact you as soon as I hear from Harry or Kingsley. Good-bye."

She added a brief nod in the direction of her sister and left the room.

Mother Mary Barbara sighed and turned towards John.

"Whatever will happen, John, you can always count on our support. They can't force you to return to the wizarding world if you don't want to, I think."

John looked at her and smiled wryly.

"Thank you, Mother Superior."

He picked up his toolbox resolutely.

"I'll go and see to that lock down there before dinner."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

The door opened and instantly everybody fell silent. All eyes were fixed on the man who came out of the next room. He looked pale and haggard, seemed to have aged ten years in the hour he had spent alone in the office of the Scottish Minister of Magic. He moved like a sleepwalker; looking straight ahead, ignoring their enquiring faces. He made for the door and left the room, went downstairs and out of the building. Outside it was pouring, but he didn't notice or didn't care, didn't stop or quicken his pace, he just kept on walking. Down the hill, straight through the groups of tourists on their way to the castle, armed with umbrellas and waterproof jackets. At the traffic lights he met with a wall of waiting pedestrians and automatically changed direction, turning right and following the next street, walking on and on, occasionally turning right or left in a haphazard way until he reached the park. He hesitated briefly then continued on the footpath, crossing the deserted, waterlogged lawns, arriving in a residential street. He was soaked, his white shirt translucent with wetness, his hair plastered to his skull. People turned and stared at him, but he just walked on and on. Another street, tenement buildings, parked cars, a corner shop. He didn't notice any of it.

"John!"

He didn't hear, didn't stop. Steps were running after him, Shoes with heels, sounding loud on the wet pavement. Suddenly there was a woman front of him, holding a red umbrella, panting, adjusting her shoulder bag with her free hand. She lifted the umbrella to cover both their heads. The raindrops stopped and he focused on her. Vivian.

"John, what are you doing here? Have you come to see me?"

"See you….?"

He looked around, taking in his surroundings for the first time.

Vivian sighed.

"This is where I live, John. I gave you my address, remember?"

"My name's Severus," he said in a flat voice.

"Sorry?"

"My name's Severus Snape. I've seen my memories."

"You've seen your memories?" Vivian repeated incredulously, watching him closely.

His face was white and rigid, he was shivering with cold but didn't seem to be aware of his discomfort. In fact, he conveyed the impression of being totally disorientated. Vivian frowned. This looked like shock and not as if the encounter with his memories had been a pleasant one.

"Better come to my flat," she said, touching his limp arm and steering him towards the nearest tenement building.

He showed no resistance, meekly followed her inside and upstairs to the second floor, joining her umbrella in leaving a trail of wet marks on the steps and a puddle in front of her door while she fumbled with the lock. Water was dripping from his hair and his shirt, running from the legs of his trousers.

As soon as they had entered her flat, Vivan opened the door to her right.

"Bathroom," she announced authoritatively . "You must get out of your wet things unless you want to catch pneumonia. Take a hot shower or a bath, whatever you like. There's a bathrobe hanging behind the door. It's two sizes too large for me, so it should fit."

She opened a cupboard next to the bathroom door.

"Here. Towels. Take your time and if you're ready we can see to your clothes, have some tea and talk."

When he emerged from the bathroom, barefoot and wrapped in a dark green towelling bathrobe revealing white, hairy legs, Vivian dumped all his clothes in the washing machine and handed him old newspaper pages to stuff in his wet shoes. She had made tea and carried the tray through into the living-room.

"So," she said, handing out the mug and putting a plate of chocolate biscuits on the coffee table, making her voice sound cheerful, "your real name is Severus? That sounds much more sophisticated than John."

He looked at her and she recoiled at the pain displayed in his dark eyes.

"My real name? I don't know…"

"But you've just told me it was Severus and that you'd seen your memories…"

"Severus Snape…he is…he was a dreadful man, a loner, cynical and sadistic, a monster, a murderer …" His voice failed him, he ended with a desperate moan.

He was clutching the mug with both hands, his knuckles white, and was staring at the tea. Vivian watched him for several minutes, baffled and without a clue of how to react.

Taking a deep breath she tried again.

"Perhaps we can start at the beginning with all the information I need to understand what you are talking about. How did you learn about your real name and your memories?"

There was no answer. Vivian looked at him and realized that her words had not reached him. He was staring at his mug with vacant eyes, his face and his posture expressing utter despair and misery.

With a desperate sigh Vivian got up and went over to sit on the sofa next to him. Good Lord, she wasn't good at that kind of thing! Helplessly she studied his pale, sharp profile, taking in the dark shadow of evening stubble on his jaw and the ugly scarring on his neck, just visible above the collar of the bathrobe and behind the wet strands of hair. Words, no matter how cleverly chosen, were of no use here. Slowly, tentatively she lifted her arm, hesitated self-consciously, unsure if what she was about to do was right, and finally, holding her breath, rested her fingers on his shoulder. There was no indication that he had noticed. She started making slow movements with her hand, small ones at first, then, growing bolder, extending their diameter, covering all of his upper back, her palm leaving circular traces on the towelling fabric of the bathrobe. She became totally absorbed in the movement, her concentration focused on her hand, on his back; and although there was no immediate reaction, after a while she imagined that she could feel him relax and that he was actually leaning a bit closer towards her.

With a resolute thud his mug landed on the table top and he sat up straight. Her hand stopped and came to a rest on his shoulder blade.

"Do you believe in magic?" he asked.

"Magic?" She couldn't suppress a short giggle of surprise.

"Magic, yes."

"Uh…What exactly do you mean? The magic they perform on stage? Or magic like in witches and wands and fairy tales?" she added more soberly.

"Wizards and wands, but without the fairy-tales," he replied.

She cleared her throat nervously.

"Well, I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"I'm a wizard, Vivian. At least – that's what they told me."

"Who?"

"The other witches and wizards, those who knew me and have kept my memories."

"The other witches and…? How could they keep your memories?"

"I gave them away."

"You… what?"

This was getting them nowhere. With each answer things were getting more confused instead of clearer. Vivian sighed.

"John… no, sorry, Severus…"

He winced. "Call me John, please."

"Right then, John. Let's start somewhere near the beginning again. Who exactly are you? Or if you prefer it differently: Who exactly is Severus Snape?"

He turned abruptly so that he could look at her, dislodging her hand from his shoulder.

"According to what I was told some days ago and what I saw with my own eyes today there is a community of witches and wizards in Britain which exists alongside what you would call normal society. It is a self-contained magical world that has few contacts with non-magical people."

He saw her frown and stopped with a sigh of despair.

"I know it sounds bizarre, it is hard to believe, but please trust me, take it as a given fact because otherwise my story doesn't make sense at all."

His eyes bore into hers, imploring her to believe him.

Vivian nodded and managed a weak smile.

"Uh-huh, I'll try. Please, go on."

"My parents were one of those rare exceptions, a mixed marriage that became a thoroughly unhappy one. The financial situation didn't help. Poverty is the only word to describe it. My father was more or less constantly on the dole, drowned his despair in drink and found an outlet for his frustration in regular beatings of my mother and me. The images I've seen of my childhood…"

He stopped and shook his head miserably. Without thinking Vivian reached out and touched his hand, causing him to look at her with a wry grimace.

"School wasn't much better, neither the non-magical local primary school nor Hogwarts, the boarding-school for wizards. I was poor, ugly and unpopular, compensating my lack of friends by working very hard, hiding behind books, excelling in almost all subjects and developing a special interest in the Dark Arts – magic that harms other people," he explained, shuddering at the memory, squeezing his eyes shut as if to banish the images of horror.

When he continued his voice was low and strained with effort to make it sound detached and unemotional.

"There was only one person I could call a friend, a girl I knew from my home town. Friendship developed into love eventually on my part, but I could never find the courage to tell her. And then, in a moment of deepest humiliation I insulted her, drove her away and she married another man and had his child, while I drifted more and more towards the Dark side and joined a group who believed in the superiority of pure-blood wizards and whose aim it was to put all of Britain under wizarding rule. They were called Death-Eaters, their leader was a very powerful wizard who had named himself Voldemort. He was a megalomaniac and I don't know if I really believed the crap he preached, but I longed for power, hoped for a chance to pay back all the unfairness and bullying I'd had to endure; however, all I achieved was the death of the girl I still loved."

He had clasped her hands and held them in a fierce grip. Vivian felt her fingers go numb, but didn't want to complain for fear of interrupting his flow of thought.

"This left me devastated and with the wish to die; my old headmaster, however, suggested a way to redeem myself by working for those who were trying to stop Voldemort. I became a spy, a double agent and I had to go back to his lair and pretend being a Death-Eater, I had to continue participating in their rituals, I had to act the most faithful servant to destroy suspicions about my loyalty…I've seen myself doing things I'd never have considered possible. I tortured, I killed. I despised myself for it and had to endure being despised by others for what I pretended to be."

He let go of her hands and buried his face in his hands.

A high beeping sound came from the kitchen: The washing machine. Vivian excused herself, went out and transferred his clothes to the tumble drier. When she returned he looked up again. His long hair was dry now, hanging loosely around his face, making him look younger and very vulnerable. She resumed her seat next to him. For a long moment none of them spoke, John stared at the carpet. Vivian caught herself admiring his feet: Long and slender, with a high instep and a slight gap between the first two toes.

With a deep breath he looked up again.

"In these past two years of my new life I have realized that I'm not a very social or easy-going man. Most of the time I prefer solitude or the company of books or herbs to that of people, nevertheless I get along well with everybody at the convent, they accept me the way I am. I would even go as far as to say I've got friends there. I'm content, happy. But Severus Snape – almost everybody loathed him or feared him, things like trust and friendship didn't exist in his life, he was completely alone. The only exception was the headmaster – and in the end Snape had to kill him. Oh God, Vivian – I don't want to be that person, I don't want to become Severus Snape again, I don't want to live his life, I don't want to return to a community where nobody likes me!"

The last words had been cried out in agony with his head thrown back. Now he slumped forward again, hiding his face. Vivian stared at him helplessly, her right hand hovering over his shoulder. Surely her female instincts should tell her what to do or say to comfort him. But she didn't have a clue other than rely on the method she had used earlier. Slowly her hand descended on the towelling fabric of the bathrobe, again taking up the gentle rubbing motions.

His story still didn't make much sense to her, but she understood that somehow he had managed to take a glimpse of his past and it had been extremely unpleasant. With her free hand she picked up her mug and took a sip of her tea. She grimaced. It was cold and bitter. He hadn't touched his. Outside the light had faded to the orange glow of the streetlamps. It was late, they both were tired, it was useless to probe deeper into his story, hope for more explanations,.

The signal of the tumble drier made her jump. She got up and returned with his clothes, draping them over the backs of the dining table chairs. He had not moved.

"John?" she said quietly.

He looked up, his face drawn and blotched.

"Your things are dry, well, except for your shoes, but – I don't know – it is late and still raining, perhaps – perhaps you would prefer to sleep here? It's a sofa bed you're sitting on."

His hand fell to his side and he was running it along the fabric as if testing the upholstery.

"I don't want you to put yourself out…"

"No bother, don't worry."

He sighed.

"I'm too tired to think."

"Then you'd better stay here," Vivian replied dryly and went to fetch the bedding.

Vivian fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but woke up after only two hours, unable to go to go to sleep again. Witches and wizards performed a crazy _danse macabre_ in her imagination, brandishing wands, with John Smith changing into a sinister-looking Severus Snape, lurking in the shadows or mingling with dark, contorted figures wearing cloaks and grotesque masks. The more she tried to relax, to empty her mind and reach sleep, the more awake she became.

Finally she gave up and decided to get up for a drink.

She opened her bedroom door and gasped with shock when she found herself opposite her guest.

"God, you gave me a fright!" she whispered.

"Sorry, I couldn't sleep."

"Neither could I."

"I'm sorry for having burdened you with my problems," he said hoarsely.

"No bother, John. I'm used to having weird dreams from time to time. My subconsciousness is very imaginative I presume."

They remained standing in the dark hall, looking at each other's shadowy forms, embarrassed, undecided of how to go on. Slowly Vivian's eyes adjusted to the poor light. She saw that he was wearing the bathrobe, but with the belt undone and couldn't help staring at him for a protracted moment of fascination until he noticed her gaze and hastily drew the bathrobe close. Vivian felt her cheeks grow hot. And all of a sudden world and time ceased to exist, she couldn't move, couldn't speak, mesmerized by the rapid pounding of her own heart, drowning in the sound of her breathing filling her ears.

And then it happened. Later they weren't able to say how or why, or who had made the first move. It just happened. Suddenly they were in each other's arms, holding each other in a tight embrace. Her head resting against his shoulder Vivian could smell traces of the shower gel he had used earlier and something else, something primeval, musky, male. She felt her mouth go dry and swallowed hard. His hands were on her back, holding her both gently and securely, exploring the curve of her spine, caressing her neck, her shoulders, plunging into her hair; and she was overcome by a sensation of rightness. This was what she had longed for, to be close to his body, to hold him, to be in his arms. His breathing was fast and ragged, he cleared his throat, she raised her head to make out the outlines of his face in the darkness and their lips met, going from soft, tentative touch to lingering, hungry kisses. And then taking his arm and leading him to her bedroom was the most natural thing to do next…

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

The bells were ringing. She knew she had to get to the chapel, John was there, he was in terrible danger, she was the only one who could save him and she knew she was late. If she didn't reach the altar in time for the ceremony to begin he would be lost forever. The nuns would be furious, but the faster she tried to run, the more the church spire seemed to drift away from her into the far distance. Her lungs were burning, her legs were getting out of control, she stumbled and fell. Overcome with panic, she couldn't breathe, her t-shirt, wet with sweat, was clinging to her body uncomfortably, making her shiver…

Vivian woke with a start, drenched in sweat, her mouth dry. Daylight was seeping through the gap between the curtains. What a horrible dream… But the bells were still there, loud, insistent. The doorbell. Her doorbell! A quick glance at the clock informed her that it was 9.30. Shit! She was late for work, she had to phone the office! No, wait, it was the weekend, Saturday. Her eyes fell on a black head next to her. John. A quick surge of pleasure made her smile, driving away the aftermath of the dream.

The head grunted and turned. Vivian's thoughts focused on the doorbell again. Who on earth would want to visit her on a Saturday morning? The postman? She wasn't expecting anything that would justify such a racket.

"The doorbell's ringing," muttered John's voice and then he, too, was sitting up abruptly, fully awake and alert.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know," Vivian answered.

They stared at each other. She sighed.

"Well, I'd better find out."

She threw back the duvet, picked up an old cardigan from the chair next to the bed and shuffled towards the hall. There she pressed the button of the intercom, yawning an indignant 'yes' into the mouthpiece.

"Ms Vivian Baker?" an authoritative male voice asked.

"Yes, who else do you expect?" she replied gruffly.

"We're looking for Severus Snape or John Smith. Is he with you?"

Vivian felt John's hand on her shoulder.

"Yes, he is," he said before she had a chance to answer.

"Severus," the voice exclaimed, "we must talk."

"Give us half an hour," John answered.

"Spare us your tricks, Severus. You know we have the means of forcing an entrance if you don't cooperate."

The voice carried an open menace now.

"Don't be ridiculous, you have just woken us up, give us a chance to get dressed and make ourselves presentable," John said through gritted teeth.

"OK. Half an hour, but we're mounting a watch outside the house."

"Please yourself," John muttered and turned to face Vivian.

"They've sent a search party," he explained.

"Who?"

"The wizards."

Vivian sighed. The memory of the story he had told her the night before came back with a vengeance. He had claimed being a wizard. Could it be true? Would she learn more about it now? But who were these people? Should she really let them into her flat? Perhaps they were dangerous. Should she call the police?

"There's no need to worry, they mean no harm," John said as if he knew her thoughts. "And they are only after me."

He shrugged apologetically. Vivian answered with a wry grimace.

"OK then, let's face the music. You can go to the bathroom first and I'll make coffee."

She turned to go, but a hand on her arm made her stop.

"Yes?"

He swallowed hard.

"Vivian… about last night…I didn't mean to…I…I lost control. I'm so…"

"Don't tell me you're sorry," she interrupted him fiercely. "Because I'm not."

The expression of bafflement in his eyes made her want to hug him.

"I lost control, too and I enjoyed it," she said in a soft voice. "I really did."

His face was a picture of incredulity as he stared at her speechlessly.

Vivian reached up, smiled and ran her fingers along his stubbly jaw.

"I really did," she repeated.

"And, John, there's a razor in the bathroom cabinet."

Exactly half an hour later the doorbell started ringing again. Vivian hurried into the hall to buzz in whoever was waiting outside while John retreated into the living-room to receive the visitors there. She opened her front door and peered down the stairs expectantly. By the sound of it there were several people on their way.

"The more the merrier," she muttered as the first person took the last turning. It was a tall, black man, wearing an immaculate navy three piece suit, a crisp white shirt and matching tie; the only item marring the impression of conservative respectability was the small earring that adorned his right ear lobe. Could this man be a wizard?

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," he introduced himself with a little bow, and Vivian grinned nervously and waved him into the flat.

"Minerva McGonagall." A stern-looking elderly lady in a tartan skirt and matching tweed jacket followed, eyeing Vivian with a stern look of appraisal.

"Arthur Weasley." A friendly looking, middle-aged man with thinning red hair and an ill-fitting brown corduroy jacket that had seen better days. He greeted Vivian with a warm smile, grasping her hand and shaking it enthusiastically.

These people certainly looked perfectly ordinary – were they all wizards?

"Mother Mary Barabara." A nun. Good Lord!

They all filed into Vivian's small living-room, where John was waiting for them, standing as far away from the door as possible, his arms crossed before his chest, greeting the members of the magical world with a stiff nod, and the nun with the shadow of a smile. Then everybody was standing around awkwardly.

"Well, do sit down somewhere," Vivian said with forced cheerfulness, indicating the seating facilities with a wave of her arm.

"Tea? Coffee?" Vivian asked, determined to overcome the awkwardness by playing the perfect hostess.

Nobody wanted a drink, but at least all of them had found a place to sit. Somehow they had managed to crowd on one side of the coffee table, sitting in a half-circle, facing John, who preferred to stand, unwilling to leave the comfortable section of wall he had chosen for leaning against, his arms still crossed before his chest defensively. Like an audience waiting for the one-man-show to start, Vivian thought. Or rather like a tribunal facing the accused…? She decided to place herself away from the main participants in the action to come, choosing a chair at the dining table.

There was another embarrassed moment of silence before the tall black man started to speak.

"Severus…"

"John!"

"OK then, _John_, yesterday you watched your memories and learned who you really are…" He paused briefly to put emphasis on the last words, but John remained motionless and didn't react.

"Unfortunately you walked out on us without waiting to discuss your further options, thus causing us a lot of trouble tracking you down…"

"How did you find me?" John interrupted, shifting his weight slightly.

The black man stopped with an irritated little grunt.

"Arthur phoned the convent, but they couldn't help us. Finally we found Ms Baker's card in your wallet. You were kind enough to leave your jacket at the Ministry, remember?"

John grimaced.

"We did some research and found out that Ms Baker was the woman you were in contact with at the hospital in Ayrshire. By then it was close to midnight, however, and we decided to postpone our visit till morning."

His voice was grim, but John's face remained perfectly impassive.

Shacklebolt continued. "There are several possibilities now. The most obvious option is that you retrieve your memories and return to the wizarding world. You could, of course, also return without taking your memories back, leaving them in storage at the Ministry or applying for the permission to destroy them. In both cases there is some paperwork to be completed and you'll need a new wand, of course. If you decide to stay in the Muggle world, with or without your memories, you'll have to sign a contract as determined by the Statute of Secrecy, agreeing not to reveal the existence of the wizarding community to the Muggles. It is the same contract we use with the families of Muggle-born students."

The nun nodded thoughtfully.

"Choosing a Muggle existence would imply that what is left of your estate in our world falls to the government."

John's lips curled slightly.

"He won't seriously consider living as a Muggle!" the elderly witch exclaimed. "He's a wizard of outstanding abilities, it would be such a waste!"

"Minerva, please," Kingsley Shacklebolt said.

"My outstanding abilities, dear Minerva, are practically non-existent at the moment," John replied sarcastically. "I don't remember anything about magic and couldn't perform a spell if my life depended on it."

"But your magic, your power and your talent are still there, Sev… John! Some knowledge will come back with the memories and the rest you can learn again."

"So what does that make me? One of your students? Do you want me to go back to the classroom?"

The witch looked uncomfortable.

"Well, yes, no…I'm sure a solution can be found."

John snorted and turned his head, ostentatiously studying the dark clouds in the sky outside.

"What I don't understand," said the nun, "is, why taking the memories back is such a big issue. After seeing them he can remember them anyway, can't he?"

"At the moment, yes," Shacklebolt answered with the forced patience adults usually employ for overly inquisitive children. "But the recollection will fade, it will become very vague; he will always remember who he is, but the original memories don't stay in his consciousness, he can't dream about them, for example."

"But that would be an advantage!" Vivian exclaimed, and blushed when suddenly everybody turned and stared at her.

"I…I mean…from what he told me yesterday, the memories weren't exactly pleasant," she added defiantly.

The elderly witch studied her with raised eyebrows.

"Do you think, you, as a Muggle, can assess the situation?"

"Minerva!" The nun shot an angry look at the witch. Vivian frowned. Why were the two on first name terms? She turned to face the witch.

"Yes, I do. I may not be able to do magic, but I can see if someone is in distress!" Vivian said angrily, meeting Minerva's eyes with brave determination.

Shacklebolt frowned and cleared his throat.

"The nature of the memories is not a topic of our discussion…"

"But it is, Shacklebolt," John said softly. He shifted his position and went closer to the sofa, standing right in front of the black wizard.

"Can you give me a reason why I should want to return to a community where I was generally disliked?"

"Severus!"

"John! How can you say something like that?"

"Severus, listen mate…"

The wizards were agitated, the man called Arthur Weasley had half-risen from his chair.

"It was all in the memories. Do they not show the truth?" John's voice, quiet, but every consonant sharp as a knife, cut through the turmoil.

The wizards fell silent, sharing extremely uncomfortable glances..

"Severus…John, what you've seen is the past."

Minerva was on her feet now, her pale cheeks showing pink spots of excitement, her glasses flashing.

"Times were hard then, we were at war. We never questioned the persona you presented to us. We had no idea about your true nature. None of us was privy to Dumbledore's plans. Now we know better. We understand your reasons, we know how much you suffered. And you are famous, everybody knows what you have achieved, you are considered a hero, you are on the chocolate frog cards."

"The what?" exclaimed Vivian and the nun in unison

"It's for children," Arthur Weasley explained. "Sweets. You get one card with every chocolate frog. The cards show famous wizards and you can collect them."

Vivian exchanged a quick look with John. Had she seen him suppress a smile? His voice, however, when he spoke again, was grave.

"So I'm a hero."

"People love you and respect you…"

"They put me on a pedestal and stare at me. They see the deeds I did, the magic I performed, the potions I created. They love the stories about me which are excellent for making their flesh crawl with horror. They may call me a hero in public, but in private they shake their heads and call me a freak. Do they want to know me, the real me, the man behind the legends? Do they love this man? Do they want to be friends with him? No, I don't think so."

With quick strides he returned to his place at the window.

"Severus! How can you…"

Minerva's voice was hoarse with shock, her body shaking with agitation.

"How can I… what? Speak the truth?" His voice was quiet, mocking even.

The witch clenched her teeth and stared at him. He stared back, his black eyes unreadable. The atmosphere was tense with emotion, nobody moved, even breathing seemed to create too much noise.

Slowly the witch relaxed, her fists opened, she took a deep breath and went over to where John was standing.

"Severus…"

"John!"

"John, give us a chance."

The movement of his head was almost imperceptible.

"Please!"

Her voice was pleading, her hand on his arm.

His eyes left her face, swept around the room, taking in each person in turn, lingering on Vivian for a moment. It felt like a caress and she smiled in response. Finally he focused on Shacklebolt .

"I need more time, I need to think."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	13. Chapter 13

_Thanks for all the reviews. I didn't get round to answering them personally._

**Thirteen**

Vivian was arranging mugs and spoons on the tray, the clatter of the crockery and the noise of the kettle drowning the babble of voices from across the hall. She had left the doors slightly ajar so that it would be easier for her to carry the tray over to the living-room later on.

After John's concession the atmosphere of the meeting had become noticeably more relaxed and Vivian's offer of refreshments had been met with grateful enthusiasm this time. So she had withdrawn to the kitchen to make tea, glad to be on her own for some minutes and able to digest what she had just seen and heard.

She was putting the tea bags into the pot when John's voice rose to an angry level.

"No, you won't do that to her. I won't have it."

Vivian froze, her hand hovering above the teapot. The kettle switched itself off, she ignored it.

Another argument? What was the matter now, who was 'her'?

"I'm afraid, we can't. It's against the Statute of Secrecy." Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"The Statute of Secrecy be damned! I don't want her to lose the memories."

Vivian tiptoed closer towards the door, straining her ears to hear more.

"Can't you just let her sign the contract you use for the families of Muggle-borns?" asked Mother Mary Barbara's voice.

"She isn't family."

"That's right, but as John hasn't got family, maybe in his case the regulations can be expanded to include friends."

"You have my full support, Mother Mary Barabara. As far as I know friends are not explicitly excluded by the regulations," Arthur Weasley replied thoughtfully

"Well, I'm afraid, I can't agree with you there," Kingsley Shacklebolt said vehemently.

"Friends are not the same as family, there isn't the same commitment. They are not as close, they change, it is almost impossible to keep track of their comings and goings and to control them. I absolutely refuse to take on the responsibility…"

A wave of protest drowned the rest of the sentence.

"Your knowledge about friendship may be so much more comprehensive than mine, Shacklebolt, and my opinion on it childishly idealistic, but although I admit that nowadays the number of my friends is somewhat larger than it used to be, it is still a manageable group, easy to control." John, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but Vivian could hear the despair and bitterness hidden behind it when he added, "and I won't tolerate any of them being taken from me."

"It's against the law."

"Kingsley, don't be so bloody pedantic," Arthur Weasley hissed. "This is a very special case, we have to handle it with consideration and delicacy instead of strictly by the book. I think we can afford to make an exception. Can't you see that Vivian and John…well, I wouldn't have wanted Molly to forget about me."

"He's right, Kingsley," Minerva McGonagall said in a voice well practiced in ending classroom arguments once and for all. "This a very special case indeed and it requires special care."

"Very well, if you all agree on this point, let her sign the contract. I just hope we don't make a mistake here," Shacklebolt grudgingly gave in with what sounded like an exasperated sigh.

Vivian retreated to the teapot and switched the kettle back on. Her cheeks were hot with embarrassment. They were talking about her! What was that about losing her memories and being taken from John? And herself and John…what had Arthur Weasley wanted to say? And who was Molly?

She took a milk carton from the fridge and, the kettle having done its duty for the second time, poured the boiling water into the teapot, trying to calm down. Her hands were cold and trembling slightly. Putting everything on the tray, she picked it up with a deep breath and pushed the door open with her foot.

"Tea," she announced brightly, facing the strange assembly of her guests with a wide smile of friendly ignorance. They all looked flustered and seemed reluctant to meet her eyes.

The next five minutes were spent pouring tea and handing out mugs. The last one she carried over to John at the window, her fingers brushing against his when he took the mug from her.

It was like a bolt of electricity running through her body – 'she and John'… She didn't dare meet his eyes, hoping nobody had noticed the shudder running through her body. Trying hard to gain her composure she went to her old seat at the table.

"We're going to find an unoccupied office room for you to use, Sev…John," Arthur Weasley said, obviously continuing with what had been discussed before John's outbreak.

"You can look at the memories again at leisure if you want to and if you want to talk to one of us, it can be arranged."

John nodded, taking a sip of his tea.

"I'd like to talk to Harry Potter," he said, his eyes on his mug.

"Sure, I'll tell him, he'll be delighted," Minerva McGonagall replied. "Would you like to visit Hogwarts as well?"

"Hogwarts?"

"You could talk to Albus' portrait, you know."

Talk to a portrait? Vivian suppressed a giggle.

"There's a portrait of Albus in the Ministry as well," said Kingsley Shacklebolt. "so if you want to talk to Dumbledore you can do it there. Visiting Hogwarts would cause further problems with security…"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt, just shut up!" Minerva McGonagall's patience was wearing thin. "I'm sure it can be arranged. Would you like to come, John?"

He shook his head.

"No, I…I don't think so, I'd rather stay in Edinburgh…"

"You can't go back to the Convent, of course," Shacklebolt stated matter-of-factly.

"What?" Mother Mary Barbara exclaimed.

"Statute of Secrecy," the wizard explained. "He hasn't agreed to be a member of our community yet, hence it's either _obliviate _or signing the contract. As performing the _obliviate_-spell would be extremely counter-productive in his case, he must sign a provisional contract covering the time before he makes his final decision. This has to be done, as we all know, in a special ceremony at the Ministry in the presence of the official in charge. In other words, Monday morning at the earliest. Before that we can't let him have unsupervised contact with Muggles."

The black wizard was leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms before his chest in a defiant gesture of righteousness. All the others, Vivian and Mother Mary Barbara as well as the two wizards, were staring at him mutely, rendered speechless by this new avalanche of red tape.

Mother Mary Barabara was the first to recover,

"Mr Shacklebolt, this is downright ridiculous. Do you really think John would tell anybody at St. Mary's about all this? And even if he did, who would believe him at all?" she cried indignantly. "Where do you want him to stay? Do you want to lock him away somewhere? Take him to your prison?"

"No, certainly not. There are some Ministry guestrooms in Edinburgh…"

"He can stay here," Vivian said quietly. Everybody turned towards her, but this time she didn't blush. Her eyes were firmly fixed on Shacklebolt's face, her voice was calm.

"From what I've just heard I take it that this Statute of Secrecy applies to me as well. I don't know your laws, but if I also have to go to your Ministry and sign this contract and if you plan to keep me under surveillance till Monday morning, John and I may just as well be in one place. We can keep each other company and it may help you organize things as you probably are short-staffed at the weekend. So, actually, we're doing you a favour."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks for the reviews, here's the next chapter. I found it very hard to write and I'm immensely proud that I've managed to finish it within my weekly deadline._

**Fourteen**

By three o'clock in the afternoon they all had gone. John remained at his place at the window and was now peering outside, trying to make out the two wizards on surveillance duty down in the street_. _But there was nothing to be seen. Kingsley Shacklebolt had muttered somethingabout _Disillusionment Charms_ and Arthur Weasley had explained to Vivian that this meant she wouldn't be able to see them.

Vivian was in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. He should be helping her, should push the chairs back, straighten cushions… But he was unable to muster enough energy to move away from the window sill. What had he done? She was stuck with him, he had spoiled her weekend. Was she already regretting her offer of accommodation? It was all his fault. His egoistic objections, pronounced without due consideration on the spur of the moment when Shacklebolt came up with the demand of _obliviating_ her. Why had the prospect of this woman losing her memories of everything connected to the wizarding world been so intolerable all of a sudden? _Obliviating_ her would have been the easiest option, would have left a clean slate, would have offered himself a chance to come to his decision alone, uninfluenced and without bothering anybody else. The way he preferred it. Or did he?

After meeting her in front of the shop he really had meant to phone her, but after his first fruitless attempt had always ended up with the phone in his hand, her card on the desk in front of him, his fingers ready for dialling, his mind rehearsing phrases he would use when she answered the phone – and then he had put down the receiver, unsure of what to say, hesitating and finally abandoning his plan, thinking that she had her own life, that he shouldn't impose himself on her. The card had remained in his wallet, tucked away in a forgotten corner among other business cards and receipts.

Last night, however, it had felt so good to confide in her, to pour out the tale of his messed up life to her, even if he suspected that she had not half believed his story. The tea and sympathy thing Sister Mary Claire had been offering him before, but with Vivian it had been different. Easier. He wasn't able to say why, perhaps it was the way she had touched him or the fact that helping strangers wasn't part of her professional life.

John looked up when Vivian entered the room. She smiled at him and he tried to smile back, feeling very much at the end of his tether.

"I forgot to ask – are we allowed to go outside?" she said. "I need to buy some milk and I could do with some exercise. The weather's starting to get better, we could go for a walk."

She sounded resolute, but looked pale and exhausted. He suppressed the sudden urge to wrap her in his arms and comfort her. He couldn't do that, not in broad daylight and fully conscious. Last night had been different, unreal, like a dream. Now she was trying to be strong, to keep up a pretence of normality in the face of what had happened here this morning; there was nothing about her demeanour that told him she would welcome his embrace.

He made a careful effort to keep his voice matter-of-factly.

"I think we can go outside. They're probably instructed to follow us and will think we're a bloody nuisance interrupting their crosswords, but they can't stop us."

His attempt at joking was rewarded with another smile.

"Shall we go then?"

He nodded. Hoping that exercise and fresh air would help him clear his head and give him an idea of how to survive the rest of the weekend.

"I'm sorry it turned out like this," John remarked. They had been walking briskly and in silence for half an hour, each of them hoping to have their cloudy thoughts driven away by the fresh wind and the sunshine, and were now slowing down, their attention caught by a rather messy impromptu football match on the still wet grass.

"I didn't intent to come here and bother you, it was a coincidence, believe me."

"I know that, John," she replied in so resigned a tone that he came to a halt and turned to study her profile. She glanced at him sideways, then fixed her eyes on the football match again with a mirthless little laugh.

"After we'd had lunch together, I hoped that you would call. But when week after week passed without any sign from you I realised that you weren't interested."

He didn't answer, kept staring at the makeshift goal of jackets and backpacks. Finally he shook his head and muttered something Vivian didn't catch.

"Sorry?"

It took him a long time to clear his throat.

"I wanted to phone you. Then, once, when I really got as far as dialling there was the answer phone and then…" The sentence ended with a helpless shrug.

"You could have left a message," Vivian said quietly. "That's what answer phones are for."

He snorted.

"I do know that. But I thought that you'd rather not be involved with me and my mysterious past."

"Oh, John, damn, I'm your friend and that's what friends are for, isn't it?"

"If you say so," he muttered indifferently.

"Come on, John, don't be so stubbornly insistent on playing the lone wolf. Even if your former self didn't have friends, you have them now. That's what you said yourself. And we care for you, John, we…"

"When you were in the kitchen, making tea …how much did you hear of what we discussed?" he interrupted her, his voice hoarse.

"Well, yeah, everything I think. I couldn't help overhearing what was said, you expressed your point of view quite audibly. Who is Molly, by the way?"

"Molly?"

"Arthur Weasley said something about Molly."

"Oh, she's…well, from what I've learned in my memories…she's… his wife."

The end of the sentence had been barely audible.

"I see."

A long stretch of silence. The toe of his right shoe was carving intricate circular patterns into the gravel of the footpath.

"What exactly did they want to do to me?"

"_Obliviate_ you. Wipe out everything you had learned about wizards and magic and …me."

"This would have been your chance to get rid of me. Why didn't you grasp it?"

She knew that this remark was unfair, but somehow she couldn't help it. His mulish insistence on his role as a loner was so annoying. How would he react now? She bit her lip with apprehension.

He didn't respond, remained perfectly still, his foot had stopped moving.

Then, after a while, he turned and looked at her.

"Don't do that, Vivian," he said, his eyes boring into hers. She stared back, challenging him to go on.

"I…I know I'm still not good at things like trust and friendship, there's still a huge part of Severus Snape inside me, determining my personality, making me suspicious and anti-social. Distrust has become my second nature and I'm torn between it and the yearning for friendship and affection which is said to be native to all normal human beings. I may not be able to show it properly, but I really appreciate your friendship, I don't want to hurt you…I…I like you."

His eyes were on his shoes now, watching his toe continue with the patterns in the gravel.

Vivian was lost for words, realizing how hard this confession must have been for John. Had they reached some kind of climax, a turning point? Suddenly she pictured John and herself in a movie, the crucial scene close to the end; music would have set in, underscoring the emotional significance of his words. She would be in John's arms, the camera tracking in to show a close-up of their passionate kiss…

But nothing like that happened, of course, this was bleak reality, they remained standing opposite each other, not daring to speak, not looking at each other.

Screams from the football match burst their private bubble of emotions. One of the players had slipped on the wet grass and hurt himself, the others were gathering around him, gesticulating and shouting.

"Shall we go home? I must buy milk and I'm hungry. What would you like for dinner?"

"Dinner?" His bewildered expression showed that he had been very far away from something as profane as dinner.

"Yes, John, dinner. Food. Shall we go out? Get a take-away? Or are you brave enough to risk my cooking?"

"Oh, cooking would be fine. I like taking risks, they make life worth living."

The corners of his mouth twitched and made her smile back

"Very well, then cooking it is. What would you like, something homely like Stovies or mince and tatties? I can also make pasta…"

"Let's do mince and tatties. I can help you with the vegetables."

Vivian nodded and they started walking. They were back to normality-mode, had overcome the emotional chasm for the time being, but she was painfully aware of the fact that the rusty spots and blisters of John's soul had only been painted over, they were still there, ready to come to the surface again. It would take a long time for him to overcome Severus Snape even if he didn't take the memories back.

The injured football player was carried away by two of his mates, his face a grimace of pain. Vivian wondered if his leg was broken, thinking how much easier a straightforward injury like this could be diagnosed and healed. Much easier than an injured soul.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	15. Chapter 15

_Still not so much action in this chapter, but I simply had to write it. And I promise more action for the next chapters._

Fifteen

"And you're saying people like this?"

John removed the earphones and turned towards the dining table in disbelief. Vivian looked up from her laptop and grinned.

"Oh yeah, sure, they do. It's been running for ages and keeps people hooked."

"It's utter nonsense."

"Yeah, absolutely. Well…perhaps that's why. And it's a bit of everything. It's funny, there's history, science fiction, fantasy, there are lots of action and witty dialogues…"

Vivian shrugged. "The second episode is about witches, I think. Evil ones."

"Oh, fine, I'm sure this will feel like home to me."

John grimaced and turned towards the TV again.

Vivian chuckled softly and continued answering her e-mails.

Cooking with John had been fun, not only had he shown an incredible speed and accuracy when cutting the vegetables, he had also contributed bits of information about the beneficial properties of herbs and vegetables as medical remedies. Dinner had passed amidst pleasant conversation; they avoided the pitfalls of John's personal situation, Vivian asking general questions about the wizarding world and John answering them as best as he could with the knowledge gained from his memories.

Afterwards, when Vivian announced that she had to check her e-mails, John had browsed through her collection of books, CDs and DVDs and his attention had been caught by the cover of a 'Dr Who' DVD Vivian had been given for her birthday by a friend, who was a great fan of the series and expected everybody else to share her enthusiasm. John had stared at the picture of the actor for a long time, muttering that the man reminded him of someone he had known in his past. So, upon Vivian's suggestion, he had ended up in front of the TV with the earphones, commenting the action on the screen with snorts of incredulity.

During the second episode his remarks became more verbal and scathing. Vivian was tuning in to this ground bass of comments with half an ear, smiling to herself whenever John's opinion about Dr Who's adventures in Shakespeare's theatre found its outlet in a particularly sarcastic comment.

A suddenly violent gasp followed by silence made her look up. From her place at the table she could see John's profile. He was rigid, his eyes closed, his breath fast and shallow.

"John!" Vivian cried out in alarm. "Oh, shit! What's the matter?"

She pushed her chair back and hurried over to him, putting her hand on his arm.

"John?"

He opened his eyes and shook his head.

"Nothing serious. Just…the cramps… spasms. It will pass."

He moved a little, trying to ease his limbs, only to gasp again painfully when another cramp hit him. Vivian fumbled with the remote, switching off the TV; then she gently removed the earphones from his head.

She studied his rigid form, biting her knuckles, hoping he was right in saying it was nothing serious. She couldn't phone a doctor, the wizards had put a spell on both her phone and her mobile so that she wouldn't be able to spread the information about the existence of the wizarding community via this means. Great, absolutely brilliant! Her only connection with the outside world were the two invisible watchers downstairs.

John's breathing was quick and shallow. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face drawn with the strain of fighting against the cramps that held him immobilized, confined in a prison of agony.

All of a sudden Vivian knew what to do. Sitting down carefully she put an arm around his shoulder and drew him close. He stiffened briefly, opening his eyes for a questioning stare Vivian answered with what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

Then his eyes closed again and he was leaning into her, stifling a sigh. She could feel the cold sweat on his skin. They were sitting in silence and she noticed that he was beginning to relax. Vivian heard the soft 'plop' when her laptop went into energy-saving mode, then there was the sound of a car door slamming in the street outside, and then only John's breathing, which gradually became slower and deeper.

He stirred.

"Thank you, I'm better now. I must walk around a bit. It usually helps loosening the knotted muscles," he said, rising awkwardly from the sofa, starting to pace the room with slow, careful steps.

"Where do those cramps come from?" Vivian asked.

"I'm not sure. I was bitten by a snake, an especially vicious specimen modified by magic. Maybe the cramps are an after effect of this bite. Sister Mary Claire has a special tea which helps if taken regularly, but I haven't drunk it for two days and now I must pay the price."

"If the snake was modified by magic, maybe the wizards could help you," Vivian suggested.

"Maybe," John echoed with so little enthusiasm that Vivian understood he didn't want to pursue the topic. She suggested a hot bath and tried to go back to her e-mails while he was in the bathroom.

She had just finished with the last one and was deleting the content of the spam folder when he returned, wrapped in the green dressing gown. He remained standing in the middle of the room, awkward, hesitating, his hands buried deep in the pockets of the bathrobe. Something was on his mind. Vivian looked at him expectantly.

"John?"

He took a deep breath.

"I've been thinking…" He paused.

"Really? Great." It came as an automatic, flippant response, and she half regretted making it as soon as it was out, unsure if he was able to take the joke.

"Stop making fun of me."

He scowled angrily and Vivian hastily smiled an apology.

"Sure. I'll behave myself. Go on."

"I'm wondering…"

"Yes?"

He grimaced.

"Don't push me on, woman, this isn't easy."

Vivian gave him another apologetic smile and made a show of settling comfortably in her chair, ready for a long-winded story. He acknowledged it with a sarcastic twitch of his mouth.

"Well, what I wanted to say, is that, yeah, you know, it's strange."

Vivian raised her eyebrows, prompting him to elaborate, but he only added a confirming nod.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. What was wrong with him? Usually he wasn't at such a loss for words.

"John, what are you trying to tell me? What is strange?"

He exhaled deeply and let his eyes wander around the room, resting them everywhere except on Vivian's bewildered face.

"It feels good to be touched…by you." The words came out in a rush.

"Oh." She was taken aback. "Yeah, right, fine."

She laughed, looking at him sheepishly, not knowing how to react.

He ran a hand over his face.

"You don't understand me, I can see that," he muttered with a hopeless little shrug.

"John, the problem is…you're not very coherent at the moment. Perhaps…"

"God, Vivian, don't be so slow on the uptake! What I want to tell you is that as a rule I avoid being touched by other people. I hate it. But with you…it's different. Yesterday…your hand on my back, and just now when you held me…it was good, it was comforting…"

A large lump was developing in Vivian's throat. She swallowed hard. When she raised herself from the chair her knees felt shaky. He was watching her now and there was something in his eyes…It took her three slow steps to reach him. Gently she placed her hands on his shoulders.

"It feels good to touch you, John," she whispered, "and last night…"

His face hardened.

"That was entirely different. The circumstances…were exceptional…unreal."

"I see."

This was like treading on very thin ice indeed. Things were not going to be easy with this man. She drew him in a gentle hug.

"What about sleeping in my bed tonight? I can hold you if the cramps start again," she said softly. He stiffened. She could sense his doubts and hesitation.

"Are you sure? It would interrupt your sleep."

"No problem. And I'm perfectly sure."

"Yeah, well…I don't know…but if you say it's no problem we can take it into consideration. I think…I would like it."

Vivian smiled and wrapped her arms more closely around him.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

Lying on her left side with her arms curled around her pillow was Vivian's favourite position for falling asleep

Lying on her left side with her arms curled around her pillow was Vivian's favourite position for falling asleep. But tonight sleep wouldn't come. She was staring into the semi-darkness of the room, straight at the black lump that was the back of another head on the second pillow in the other half of her bed. Despite his lying perfectly still she knew John wasn't asleep either, his breathing, although regular, sounded too controlled and not deep enough. She was painfully aware of his presence, even though he had retreated to the far edge of the mattress. Her body was tense and aching with a restless longing, a longing for being held and caressed by the man who was sharing her bed, whose body warmth she could feel under the duvet. His manner, however, had made it clear that for him sharing the bed just meant staying on one's own side of the mattress without further interaction and that performing a _da capo_ of what they done the night before was out of the question.

Vivian suppressed a shudder and clenched her fists under the pillow, selfishly wishing for his spasms to return, giving her a reason to put her arms around him. She shifted her position, burrowing deeper into the pillow and pulling the duvet over her shoulders. The longing was becoming almost unbearable, overpowering her inhibition and self-restraint.

Slowly and noiselessly she extracted her right hand from under the pillow and moved it across the demarcation line, finding his shoulder, making him stiffen in surprise and utter a little grunt. She kept the hand in place, then started to move it, running her fingers along his neck and down his spine, slowly and gently.

"What do you think you are doing, Vivian?" his gruff voice demanded.

"I'm touching you."

"Why?"

"Because…." She opted for a light-hearted answer. "Because I like the tactile stimuli your back offers."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. There's your skin, soft and warm, there are these hairy parts, wiry and rough and the little hills of your vertebrae…"

He snorted angrily and tired to move away from her hand, but as he had already been right at the edge of the mattress his efforts were in vain.

She smiled to herself and edged a bit closer towards him, letting her hand wander along his thigh, resting it on his stomach.

"Vivian, please, if you don't stop I'll…"

"What?"

He exhaled vehemently.

"Good Lord, Vivian! Stop it! Don't play games with me! As if you didn't know! I'm a man, for God's sake!""

"So what?" She chuckled, enjoying herself now, her nervousness forgotten.

John rolled over with a violent curse, she could see the glittering of his eyes in the darkness.

Her hand went back to his shoulder, where he plucked it off and held it firmly in his own.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want you."

"Why, Vivian, why?"

Silence. She took a deep breath, deciding it was time for seriousness and honesty.

"Because I want to be close to you, John. I want to feel you."

"You want to feel me?" he repeated hoarsely. "Why?"

Vivian sighed. Why, always why! Why couldn't he understand?

"I think I…I love you."

Silence. She could hear him swallow and then, with a strange, srangled noise deep down in his throat he let go of her hand, put his arm around her and drew her close, holding her, his face in her hair, his hand on her back. Then, raising himself on one elbow he bent over to kiss her, slowly, deliberately. Her lips responded, the soft contact sending shudders down her spine.

He stopped, breathing heavily.

"What you've just said… Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, John."

"And what If I don't know… can't tell… Oh, damn, what if I'm not good at this at all…"

"It doesn't matter."

She listened to his breathing. He remained motionless, she felt his eyes on her face, could almost hear his interior debate. Finally a movement, a nod in the dark, a sigh. And his lips advanced again, aiming at her mouth, her face, her neck. Not like the night before, when a fierce longing had been behind their caresses. Now they continued slowly, leisurely, thoroughly tasting, feeling, exploring and enjoying each other, their bodies sent on a placid journey towards the climax of desire and satisfaction by the joint efforts of soft lips and nimble fingers.

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	17. Chapter 17

**Seventeen**

Seven-thirty on Monday morning. After a dry and sunny Sunday it was raining again, cold needles of drizzle, driven by an icy wind. The small red car turned right into Cockburn Street and reversed into a free parking space. Four people got out, two men and two women. One of the women opened an umbrella and struggled to hold it up against the strong gusts of wind. They hurried back into High Street and entered a small café which was next door to one of the numerous tourist shops. There were two customers inside already, sitting at the window, peering at the quartet of newcomers from behind their newspapers. After exchanging quick glances with the young man behind the bar the four people proceeded into the back of the café. Next to the toilets there was a door labelled 'private'. One of the women opened it and ushered the others into a small, bare room. Whitewashed walls and a tiled floor, a small window high up near the ceiling, showing grey clouds through a kaleidoscope of raindrops. The door closed and immediately the window came to life, turning into a monitor, on which a bearded face appeared.

"Good-morning. Welcome to the Scottish Ministry of Magic. Please state your names and your business."

"Moira Macmillan and Angus Abercrombie, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, escorting Vivian Baker and John Smith to the Ceremony of Secrecy."

"Oh, yes, we're expecting you," the face said and then one of the walls slid open, revealing a spacious lobby. Walls and floor of polished granite, a glass roof filtering what daylight there was at this early hour.

Vivian adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag and gripped the handle of her dripping umbrella, her free hand surreptitiously finding John's. He squeezed it briefly in response and added a quick, nervous grimace Vivian chose to interpret as an encouraging smile.

As soon as they had stepped through the opening in the wall, they were met by a couple of men and women in blue robes, wands raised.

"Security check," one of the women said and started moving her wand along Vivian's body, while her colleague inspected the umbrella and the contents of the shoulder bag.

Next to Vivian John had to undergo a similar treatment, but while the procedure with Vivian was brief and straightforward, John seemed to cause problems. The wizard performing the wand check frowned and repeated the process; frowned once more, shook his head and gave his wand a violent shake, making it emit blue sparks. Then he started all over again, only to abandon his efforts with an impatient oath.

"Why are these ministry wands so unreliable, for Merlin's sake? This useless piece of rotten wood keeps telling me the man is a wizard!"

His colleagues looked up and came closer, ready for investigation.

John's features turned into a white, stony mask. Moira Macmillan's face, on the other hand, developed a bright shade of pink.

"It's OK, Leo. Just leave it. John's doesn't intent to blow up the Ministry, we can vouch for him. Besides, he's acquainted with Kingsley Shacklebolt."

Leo cast her a doubtful look, frowned at John, at his colleagues, scowled at the wand, and finally shrugged.

"Alright. Just go through to reception where they'll have your visitors' badges ready."

He administered another angry shake to his wand and together with the other security wizards retreated to his glass cubicle, still muttering to himself and shaking his head.

They collected the badges stating that Vivian Baker and John Smith were visitors to the Scottish Ministry of Magic in elegant red letters against the blue and white background of the Scottish flag combined with the emblem of the Scottish Ministry of Magic, and followed the two wizards up a short flight of stairs to a paternoster. Vivian eyed it suspiciously. She had heard of this means of transport, but had never seen, let alone used one and the prospect of having to get on and off this perpetuum mobile added to her discomfort of nervous apprehension. Why, for God's sake, couldn't they employ a normal lift?

"It takes some practise, but you get used to it," Angus Aberrombie said, releasing Vivian's arm from his supporting grip when they finally had reached the landing on the fifth floor and Vivian's pulse had returned to normal. "And it's much faster than a lift."

Vivian nodded her reluctant appreciation with a weak smile, John remained silent and impassive. His face was still the white, inscrutable mask, his jaw set, his lips a thin line. Since they had left the flat he had not spoken a word, had worn his silence like a cloak, hiding his nervousness and tension beneath it.

The wizards led them down a maze of corridors – beige carpeting, cream wallpaper and reddish hardwood doors and panelling, new and expensively designed to impress – to a small lobby and another door with a brass plate saying "Ceremony of Secrecy".

The wizards tapped their wands at the door and it sprang open. They entered. A large, windowless room, the same colours as the corridors, the walls decorated with patterns of thistles and huge coats of arms. There were several uncomfortable looking chairs along the wall and the centre of the room was dominated by a large table, covered with a starched white cloth. A large tome was open on it and a slim wooden box was lying next to it. Vivian tried very hard not to show the awe she felt. Timidly she lowered her shoulder bag and her umbrella onto the nearest chair and buried her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket to keep them from shaking.

They were waiting in silence, not looking at each other, when a man entered through a small door at the back of the room. He was wearing a blue robe embroidered with gold at the collar and the cuffs. On his head there was a blue pointed hat. His white hair was down to his shoulders, his long beard tucked into his belt. He certainly looked the part of a wizard. Vivian couldn't help staring at him.

With slow solemn steps he crossed the room and stood behind the table.

"Good morning," he said in a high, reedy voice. "My name is Finnean Fraser, I'm representing the Scottish Ministry of Magic in the Ceremony of Secrecy today. Will you please come to the table and announce your names."

Vivian and John complied.

"Vivian Baker." Her voice sounded flat and thin.

"John Smith," the man next to her said with only the slightest hesitation. The Ministry official shot him a quick, scrutinizing glance.

"John Smith?" he repeated quietly. "John Smith. Hm, well…"

He folded his hands in front of his stomach and cleared his throat.

"Vivian Baker and John Smith, you are here today to enter a contract with the Scottish Ministry of Magic and thereby with the whole wizarding community all over the world.

The circumstances require that you, as members of the non-magical world, have to be informed of the existence of wizards and magic. Thus in accord with the Statute of Secrecy you must swear never to reveal your knowledge to other members of the non-magical world. You must take the oath and enter a contract by signing your names in the Book of Secrecy. If you break the contract punishment will ensue…"

"Punishment?" Vivian asked. "What kind of punishment?"

The wizard frowned at the interruption.

"Oh, usually admonition letters first, then fines…"

"We used to have prison sentences and even capital punishment in the past, but we're getting civilized," Moira Macmillan added with a little laugh from her place next to the door.

Vivian uttered a doubtful 'hmph'.

Mr Fraser coughed impatiently.

"Let's continue, shall we?"

He picked up the wooden box and opened it reverently.

"This is the wand of Callum MacGregor, the Scottish wizard who is well-known in history as a pupil and a close friend of Merlin's. Madam Baker, would you please touch it with your right hand."

Vivian extended her hand and rested her trembling fingers on the worn-looking wooden stick. It seemed to vibrate under her touch. Instinctively she wanted to draw her hand back but something seemed to hold her fingers in place.

"Vivian Baker, you will now take the Oath of Secrecy. Speak after me:

I swear by Merlin the Great and Callum MacGregor, his faithful disciple, that I will fulfill this oath and covenant. I will neither in speech nor in writing reveal the existence of the universe of magic to the non-magical world. What I may see or hear in the course of my contact with the wizarding community I will keep to myself.  
If I fulfill this oath and do not violate it, may it be granted to me to enjoy life in both communities, being honoured with fame among all men magical and non-magical for all time to come; if I transgress it and swear falsely, may the opposite of all this be my lot."

Sentence after sentence the wizard's penetrating voice and Vivian's softer one alternated.

In the end she was handed a quill and asked to sign the book in front of her.

Then it was John's turn. After he had completed his signature, Finnean Fraser bowed, gathered the book and the ancient wand and disappeared through the back door.

It was over. Vivian and John were escorted back to the lobby, where Arthur Weasley was waiting for them, carrying John's jacket over his arm.

"Good morning, Sev…sorry, John. We've found an unoccupied office for you. Kingsley will want a word with you as soon as he's in, I think."

John nodded; Vivian returned her badge to the receptionist.

"I'm off then," she said, attempting a smile. "I've got work to do."

Arthur Weasley scratched his chin, cleared his throat and handed John the jacket.

"Room 308, third floor, right hand corridor, you can't miss it," he said and turned to go. "See you later."

Vivian looked at John, but he kept staring into the middle distance, avoiding eye-contact, standing very stiffly, clutching his jacket with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Vivian's heart performed a little lurch of despair. Their Sunday had been pleasant, spent comfortably in amiable companionship. She had found that she could be relaxed in John's company, there was no desperate need for making witty remarks to fill awkward pauses in the conversation. Being together with this man just came naturally – making love with him came naturally…

But today he had closed again like an oyster, keeping his thoughts and feelings to his inscrutable, taciturn self. And tonight he would return to the convent, to his private social environment so unfamiliar to herself.

"John," she started hesitantly, and repeated his name when he still refused to look at her.

"John, I wish you luck. And… you can contact me…phone me whenever you want to."

He answered with a curt nod. She wanted to hug him, to kiss him good-bye, no matter if the lobby was teeming with office workers by now, who were passing them with curious glances, but John's rigid face and forbidding pose prevented her from even shaking his hand.

"Bye, then," she said. "See you around."

"Bye, " he answered and lifted his right hand and for a moment she thought he was going to touch her face. But all he did was point to the 'exit' sign on the far wall.

"You needn't use the security passage on your way out. It's easier to take the stairs."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	18. Chapter 18

**Eighteen**

"I'm sorry, I had a meeting at work and it took longer than I expected."

Vivian smiled apologetically, shrugging out of her jacket and draping it over the back of the chair. She sat down and smoothed back her windswept hair. The weather had remained wet and windy all week.

"It doesn't matter. Thank you for coming, Ms Baker," Minerva McGonagall replied calmly.

She was sitting very erectly, her spine barely touching the back of the chair, her hair was immaculate, her features were composed, but despite the dim lightning the ruby-coloured lamps provided Vivian could see the telltale lines of nervous exhaustion around the older woman's eyes and mouth.

Was she worrying about John as well? The Ministry had granted him a week to come to a decision. He was going to talk to people from his past, revisit his memories; a room at the Ministry was reserved for this purpose. Vivian had been waiting for a call from John ever since their chilly and impersonal parting in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic on Monday morning – in vain. She was disappointed and angry with him and getting more and more nervous. What was going on, what was he doing, what was he thinking, how would he decide?

This week certainly could be counted among one of the strangest in her life, reminding her of the days at Kilmarnock when she had been sitting next to a lonely hospital bed, contemplating the fate of an unknown, unconscious man. But this time the feeling of being cut off from reality, of living suspended in a weird world of tension, was even more intense. Now it wasn't an anonymous stranger she was involved with, but a man she knew well, a friend who had confided in her, told her about his fears, a man she had come to…love.

So she was going through the motions of work, reacting on autopilot, while her brain was busy processing her relationship with John and her involvement in the wizarding world.

And when her phone had finally rung on Wednesday night she had nearly dropped it with excitement only to listen to Minerva McGonagall's voice, asking for a meeting. Too baffled to enquire for reasons Vivian had suggested an Indian restaurant in the neighbourhood of her flat. Her hands had been shaking with both disappointment and nervous anticipation when she had put the phone back in its base. What on earth did the witch want to discuss with her? She had not seemed to be overly fond of Vivian on Saturday morning…

The waiter brought the menus and they started studying them in silence. Then it was ordering and waiting for the food and drinks to arrive.

Vivian couldn't stand the suspense any longer.

"Have you talked to John?" she asked, crumbling a piece of the chickpea crackers between her forefinger and thumb.

"Not directly, no. But I've spoken to people who have spoken to him," the witch replied.

"How is he?"

"Oh, from what I've heard – his ill-tempered, old, sarcastic self. My sister insists he's a nice and kind man, even if he isn't very sociable…"

Vivian nodded, briefly musing on the strange fact that this sister was the Mother Superior of John's convent.

"…but as soon as he's with one of us, he becomes all prickly again, I'm afraid."

"Not without reason, I think," Vivian replied, regretting the remark as soon as it had left her mouth. It wouldn't do to offend the witch.

But Minerva McGonagall only gave her a long, thoughtful look and nodded sadly.

"Not without reason, yes," she repeated, "I fully agree with you there. And we can't put it all down to ignorance on our part. There's no denying the fact that we failed him."

Vivian replied to this admision of guilt with a non-committal shrug, the arrival of their food relieving her of a verbal answer. They fixed their attention on their curries, turning meat and vegetables over with their forks in silence.

"Ms Baker, what I am about to do is not easy for me," the older woman resumed the conversation.

Vivian swallowed hard, suddenly very much afraid of what was to come.

The witch took off her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose with her middle finger and thumb.

"Ms Baker, would you mind telling me, eh,… the nature of your relationship with Severus…John?" she asked in a strained voice.

"My relationship with John? Oh. Why do you ask?"

"Ms Baker, I'm asking because I care for him."

"Do you?" Vivian couldn't help retorting.

"Yes, Ms Baker, I do. I've known him for decades, since he was eleven years old. I may have made mistakes, may have grossly misjudged his character and the role he had to play during the last year of his old life and not treated him the way he deserved, but I like him, despite his sarcasm and his irritable temper."

"So do I."

The older woman nodded slowly.

"Why, Ms Baker?"

"Because…because…" Vivian stopped, biting her lip in despair. Why did she like the man? Why did she experience this strange feeling she still hesitated putting a name to whenever she thought of him? There was no rational explanation for it. It had something to do with being on the same wave-length, with chemistry being right, with nature, instincts. She had grown fond of him at the hospital, she had been unable to forget him after he had disappeared, their chance encounter at the gallery had made her observe the groups of homeless people in the streets of the Edinburgh, hoping to find him. Then they had run into each other again, her hope for more contact kindled anew and thwarted when he'd never phoned, never visited, and it all had culminated in the weekend in her flat… And yet – his recent behaviour made her doubt once again that the feeling was mutual; however, as far as she was concerned there was only one word to describe it…

"I think…I… love him," she whispered, feeling at once both relieved about her confession and extremely vulnerable to the older woman's scorn and derision. But Minerva McGonagall only nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, I thought as much. He loves you, too."

"I don't think so," Vivian said miserably.

The witch laughed softly.

"Oh yes, my dear, he does. He loves you, that much is clear."

Vivian stared at the witch angrily.

"How do you know? How can you be sure?"

Minerva McGonagall shrugged.

"The way he looked at you on Saturday… the way he reacts whenever your name is mentioned…"

Vivian raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"Oh yes, Ms Baker, it is perfectly obvious to people who've known him before. It's something about the expression in his eyes…"

The older woman sighed.

"There was always sorrow and mourning hidden behind the screen of inscrutability. After his…accident we learned that he had always been in love with his childhood friend and had never been able to overcome Lily's death. The mourning and the sorrow are gone, Ms Baker, even now that he has learned again about Lily and his feelings for her. They have been replaced by something else, something positive and delightful and I call it love."

"But not necessarily for me, is it," Vivian asked bitterly.

The older woman smiled.

"Ms Baker, how many women do you think there are in Sev… John's life if you leave out the nuns? And you were the only one he looked at in this particular way on Saturday."

"Then why doesn't he talk to me, why doesn't he phone?"

Some of the other guests turned to stare. Vivian dropped her voice again.

"If he really loves me, he must realize that I'm waiting for him to call. Why doesn't he confide in me?"

"Because basically he's still his old self. For him it was always solitary decisions, there has never been anybody to confide in, to talk things over – apart from Dumbledore. I've known him for so long, we were colleagues, friends of sorts – but our friendship was based on provocation and amicable battles rather than sharing our thoughts and feelings."

Vivian ran a hand through her hair and sighed when her handbag started to buzz frenetically. Her mobile. With an apologetic smile she opened the zipper and found the phone. The number on the display was unknown to her. She frowned.

"Take it. I don't mind," Minerva McGonnagal said.

Vivian put the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

She listened. The woman opposite her watched as Vivian's face changed from polite interest to concentration, to surpise and shock.

"Oh, no! NO!…Yes, of course, thank you. I'll come at once," she said and switched the phone off, dropping it into her bag. For a moment she closed her eyes, her face drawn in a grimace of pain. When she finally spoke the words came slowly, her voice sounded far-away and strange.

"It's John. He's in hospital. He's had an accident, a hit-and-run-driver. He's so badly injured that they think his condition is …life-threatening."

Minerva McGonnagal went pale.

"Sweet Merlin, no!" she whispered. "Who phoned you?"

"Someone from the convent. A Sister Mary Claire."

"Which hospital?"

"The Royal Infirmary. It's not far from here."

The witch nodded grimly and took a deep breath, bracing herself for action.

"Ms Baker, do you trust me?"

Vivian nodded, too shocked for questions or discussions.

"Right then, listen. You take your car and go there at once. I'll take care of the bill. I'll contact St. Mirin's, the new Scottish hospital for wizards and we'll try to transfer John there. Most injuries can be healed by magic much more effectively than by Muggle methods. We'll do everyhing in our power to make John survive."

She reached across the table and put her hand on Vivian's.

"I'm sure we can help him He won't die."

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	19. Chapter 19

_Dear readers and reviewers, once again thank you very much for the feedback you're giving me, for your suggestions and for spotting my typos.  
_

_Leliha_

**Nineteen**

Vivian tried to calm her breathing as she followed the signs directing her to the intensive care unit. Her heels sounded loud on the well-worn lino, a rhythmic counterpoint to the pounding of her frantic heartbeat. Sweat was trickling down her back, her hair was clinging to the back of her neck damply.

She had left the restaurant in a hurry, driven the short distance to the hospital in a haze of fearful anticipation, with adrenalin making her oblivious to speed limits and traffic lights. Fortunately the streets had been fairly empty, good luck or a mindful guardian angel protecting her from causing an accident or being stopped by the police.

And now with a feeling of déja vu she was once again donning the sterile clothing and entering a room full of flickering monitors. Two other women were present, Mother Mary Barbara and a younger nun who introduced herself as Sister Mary Claire.

Vivian turned towards the bed.

"He's very badly injured. Bruises, his left arm and leg are broken, and there is a small rupture of the spleen, which they have already mended," Sister Mary Claire's soft voice informed her. "But it's the head injuries which are life-threatening. They may cause a swelling of the brain. There's not much they can do except wait and hope that ... that he'll...". The nun's voice broke, she turned away.

Vivian stared at the bed, at the tubes, at John's badly bruised face, his bandaged head, at his arm and leg suspended in plaster casts. She felt empty, numb. There was a chair beside the bed and she sank down on it, gingerly touching his good arm.

"We can only pray for a miracle," the Mother Superior added softly.

It was like coldness spreading inside her, an icy feeling of despair and helplessness. It was so damned unfair. 'Pray for a miracle' indeed. As if praying would help, as if God would condescend to listen to their particular needs and work a miracle.

"Your sister wants to try magic," Vivian said, wondering how unsensational the statement felt to her. Had her brief contact with the wizarding world already made her take magic for granted?

"She was with me when you called."

"Does she, dear?" The nun didn't sound very convinced. "What exactly does she want to do?"

Vivian shrugged. "I'm not quite sure, but she said something about a wizarding hospital and of magical treatment being more effective…"

"You would expect as much, wouldn't you?" Mother Barbara replied dryly.

"What exactly are you talking about?" Sister Mary Claire asked, a frown of puzzlement in her pale face.

Vivian exhaled loudly.

"A chance, maybe."

And then they waited. Sitting amidst the life-saving machinery, each of the three women wrapped in her own thoughts.

A commotion outside finally cut through the monotone blanket of the humming noises enveloping them. It sounded as if several people were coming, quick footsteps were approaching, accompanied by a babble of loud, excited voices.

A young male nurse appeared behind the glass partition, talking and gesticulaiting wildly towards what looked like another group of medical staff, all dressed in green.

"I don't know about any plans to transfer him to a specialist clinic. A private clinic, you're saying? Whatever, you can't take him anywhere. He isn't fit for transport, he'll die if you move him. And who did you say ordered him moved in the first place? A Dr. Granger? Never heard of him. No, listen, I'm telling you, it's impossible…"

Now the other people came closer, there were four of them; one was very tall, the tallest person Vivian had ever set eyes on, he even had to stand with a stoop in order to prevent his head from making contact with the ceiling. With his height and strong build he looked rather scary, his wild beard and long hair only incompletely covered by the green cap and the surgical mask. Vivian felt sympathy for the nurse who bravely tried to stand up to the giant and prevent his party from entering John's room. Naturally he stood no chance. Tired of the nurse's arguments the tall man shoved the smaller one aside with a leisurly movement of his powerful arm, making him stumble and slump against the far wall, where suddenly he became motionless and stiff.

"Sorry, mate. Had to do this," the tall man muttered and shrugged in commiseration.

The others entered the room and stopped just inside the door, taking in the unconscious man in the bed and the three flabbergasted women. Vivian recognized Minerva McGonnagal, who greeted them with a grim smile; and Arthur Weasley, wand in hand and an expression of anxious determination on his face, giving them a defiant thumbs-up.

Mother Mary Barbara was the first to overcome her astonishment and recover her voice.

"Minerva! So it's true, you've really organised magical help."

"Well, Diana, we can't fail him again," the witch replied gruffly.

"Can somebody please explain to me what is going on?" Sister Mary Claire demanded. She had got to her feet as well and was standing with her hands on her hips, staring angrily at each of the other people in the room in turn.

"Later, Mary Claire," the Mother Superior said sternly, resolutely shaking her head.

And then it was all action. While Arthur Weasley kept a watchful eye on the door and the corridor outside, another witch, the fourth member of the party, went up to the bed, pulled out her wand and ran it slowly over John's still form, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. The expression on her face became more and more worried. Finally she looked up.

"We may be just I time. I'll get him ready for transport. Hagrid, you must carry him, but be careful."

Vivian and the two nuns watched wide-eyed as the witch skilfully removed the tubes from John's body and surrounded him with an intricate pattern of wand movements. Then she nodded and the tall man carefully lifted him up, holding him in his arms gently. John looked small and frail against the huge chest.

"Let's go," Arthur Weasley commanded and ushered them out. He pointed his wand at the nurse and muttered something. The man stirred, sat up and stared at them with vacant eyes. "What…?" he began and ended in a violent cough.

"What have you done to him?" Sister Mary Claire demanded.

"Just _enervated_ him and lifted the _obliviate_ charm," Arthur Weasley answered pleasantly. "Nothing serious. He'll be fine. Won't remember a thing of what happened here."

"But how can he explain the missing patient?"

"No idea. That's his problem, not ours."

Sister Mary Claire snorted, obviously not satisfied with the answer, and followed the wizards.

Vivian, grabbing her bag and her jacket, exchanged a look with Mother Mary Barbara.

"I think we should go, too."

The nun nodded her consent.

"Yes, we should have an eye on John, I still don't trust these wizards."

There was no one in the corridors at this time of night, but Arthur Weasley was holding his wand, ready to subject inquisitive hospital staff to the same treatment he had used with the nurse.

They left the building through a back entrance, reserved for patients arriving by ambulance. And a large ambulance was waiting outside. All the wizards got in, Hagrid still holding John in his arms. Vivian and the two nuns just followed, nobody stopped them. Arthur Weasley was in the driver's seat. He started the engine, they left the parking area and then…

Vivian didn't believe her eyes, but there was no mistaking the feeling in her stomach. The car was taking off, it was flying. She could see the rooftops of Edinburgh and after only a few minutes they landed in the courtyard of a very new looking building constructed of yellow bricks and glass. As soon as the car engine stopped, the large glass doors opened and two women in limegreen robes, navigating a floating stretcher, came out to meet them. Hagrid gently lowered John on the stretcher and then they were inside, running down what seemed an endless flight of corridors. After a last turning, the women and John vanished behind huge green doors, only the witch who had examined him earlier was allowed to join them. Arthur Weasley and Hagrid returned to the ambulance and Minerva McGonagall, Vivian and the nuns remained stranded in the waiting area where hard plastic chairs provided rest for anxious relatives.

After a quick survey of the surroundings and an exasperated snort of disapproval the witch took out her wand and changed the chairs into two comfortable sofas and a small table. Inviting the others to sit down, she made tea and biscuits appear out of thin air and then, finally, there was enough time to meet Sister Mary Claire's renewed and insistent demands for explanations…

_Thanks to J.K.Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

The kiss was sending ripples of pleasure through her body, making every cell vibrate with love so intense it almost hurt. She wanted this kiss to go on forever, wanted to feel his soft lips against her own, to experience his tongue performing thrilling tricks in her mouth. She was losing herself completely in this kiss and in his embrace, feeling his hard body, taking in his smell, this unique blend of soap and herbs. They were inside their own very special universe of pleasure, alone and safe from the intrusion of the outside world, oblivious of everything apart from each other's caresses…

Except the voice wouldn't stop. An irritating, obstinate voice that kept saying her name over and over again and couldn't be ignored…

Vivian woke with a start, gasping at the pain in her neck. She had been asleep in her corner of the sofa; with her head lying on the armrest at what she now realized had been an extremely uncomfortable angle. Minerva McGonagall was sitting next to her, shaking her gently, calling her name, trying to wake her.

"Ms Baker, I have good news. The healers have finished. Sev…John's condition is stable, they are quite confident that he'll survive."

Vivian blinked, rubbing the back of her neck, carefully rolling her shoulders, groaning as she attempted to sit up. One of the lime green women had indeed returned and was sitting on the second sofa. She looked pale and tired, her blonde curls were loose and dishevelled, but in her face there was the contented smile of a desperate battle won.

Vivian was fighting against the residue of sleep that made her devoid of coherent speech and thought.

"John? He'll what? Oh? Oh, I see. This is…brilliant. I, uh…thank you. Is he…? I mean, can I see him?"

The doctor, no, 'healer' Minerva McGonagall had called her, smiled and nodded.

"He's fast asleep at the moment. We had to put him into a deep, forty-eight-hour healing sleep. But you can see him, of course. Follow me, please."

Another hospital room, but this time there wasn't any machinery; there were neither tubes nor IV-bags. Just John in the bed, lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. And….

Vivian gasped.

"His face…the bruises…His arm…it was broken. And the leg, too."

The healer smiled understandingly.

"There are things we can do better than Muggles. Bruises can be healed within seconds; bones take a bit longer but can be mended without plaster. Cuts can be closed without producing scars – well, most of them. We have healed all his external injuries. Our Muggle colleagues did a good job with his spleen. We added a spell to accelerate the healing. As for his head injuries – well, unfortunately that's more complex, but we applied all the appropriate spells and potions and he reacted well to them. Now we must hope for the sleep to provide the rest and the resources his body needs to heal."

Vivian nodded mutely, trying to take all this in. Sister Mary Claire went closer to the bed and looked at John, her expression a mixture of relief and professional interest.

"This is amazing. Mending broken bones within, what?" she glanced at her watch, "four hours? Fantastic. Makes me wish I could use magic, too." She laughed and shook her head. "May I ask what these potions consist of? I'm a doctor myself, I've worked in Africa for a long time and I know a bit about herbal remedies and the like."

"Oh, you worked in Africa? Now, that's interesting. The potion we use is called the Draught of Restoration and in its basic form it is derived from an ancient African recipe. You may have heard of it. The ingredients are rather simple, it's the way they are processed which makes the potion effective, and, of course, the magical power of the person who brews the potion. All you need is African Rosemary, freshly cut just before the bloom, and the leaves of the Fever Tree. You cut them with a silver knife… "

Vivian's attention drifted away from the enthusiastic lecture and focused on the man in the bed. She needed to go to him, take his hand, speak to him, perhaps he would hear her words and feel her touch through his sleep; however, the presence of the others made her self-conscious and reluctant to follow her instincts. Could she ask them to leave her alone?

Suddenly she felt a soft nudge in her side. Mother Mary Barbara was standing behind her, concern and understanding in her eyes.

"What are you waiting for? Go to him," she whispered.

Vivian smiled back in grateful surprise, straightened her back in determination and went to sit down on the edge of the mattress, picking up John's hand, cradling it in her own. He continued sleeping, breathing deeply and regularly, his pale face peaceful and relaxed. There was no sign of suffering or agony, he looked as if he was healing.

"John," she said softly, pushing a strand of hair away from his face, caressing his cheek with the back of her hand, concentrating on the prominence of his cheekbones, on the bristly sensation of his black stubble against her skin. Now it was just John and she, enclosed in a bubble of belonging and affection, which separated them from the presence of the other women in the room. There was a feeling of being cut off from reality, which was decidedly pleasant. Vivian wanted to cling to this feeling, wrap it around herself like a security blanket. The voices of Sister Mary Claire and the Healer continuing their discussion of African medicine faded away, the outlines of John's face seemed to melt and blur…

Minerva McGonagall's arms prevented her from slipping to the floor, holding her with remarkable strength, surprising in a woman of her age and stature.

"You need rest, Ms Baker," the witch stated with the authority of long years in the classroom. "We'll take you home. There's nothing we can do here at the moment. You won't help Sev…John if you keep him company in a hospital bed. Now, let's see, you have never tried side-along-apparition, I presume?"

Vivian's answer was a confused stare and Minerva McGonagall sighed.

"Actually, we don't need this, Minerva," her sister interfered. "Mary Claire can go to the Royal Infirmary, fetch Ms Baker's car and take her home."

The witch frowned.

"Apparition is perfectly safe and much quicker than a car, Diana. I also think somebody should..."

"Mary Claire can also stay with Ms Baker and look after her. She's a doctor and can handle the situation perfectly well. There's no need for magic, I think."

Her sister grimaced and shrugged.

"I must go to work," Vivian protested weakly.

"I don't think this would be a good idea, Ms Baker. You'd better stay in bed and we can phone your office and inform them that you'll be unable to come in for the next few days. Yes, Ms Baker, for the next few days," Mother Mary Barbara confirmed when she saw Vivian's mouth open in protest.

"And in case you're worrying about getting back in time for John to wake, I'm sure, Minerva will come and take you back here early enough."

The witch gave a curt nod and Vivian allowed herself to be led from the room, suddenly feeling very tired and glad to be helped and looked after.

_Thanks to J.K. Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	21. Chapter 21

Twenty-One

With a deep, exhausted sigh John sank back against the pillows, mopping his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his pyjama and trying to regain his breath. How he loathed these exercises, how he hated having to repeat the same boring movements over and over again, forcing his uncooperative muscles to follow the instructions of the physiotherapist, a blonde Valkyrie of a woman, whose professional cheerfulness and booming voice he absolutely detested. However, being perfectly aware of the fact that the loathsome exercises were a means of recovering his strength and mobility, John always gritted his teeth and dutifully performed his daily routine. Today, on top of thirty painful minutes of gruelling gymnastics he had managed to walk the length of the ward twice, in the end mobilising his last resources in order to get back to his bed without collapsing in the corridor. Now he was drenched in sweat, his knees wobbly, his head dizzy, and his heart and mind immensely proud of having accomplished the task.

The sympathetic nurses had promised him a reviving cup of tea for his efforts and he was very much looking forward to that.

When the door opened he turned his head to smile in expectation of the nursing assistant, but the smile froze on his lips when he recognized one of the trainee healers who was, as he remembered from his memory-viewing sessions, a former student of his. One of those he had considered a pain in the neck – academically brilliant, but a nerve-racking know-it-all in the classroom. She had been at his bed before, together with the daily early morning entourage of healers and nurses, but she had never come to his room alone or spoken to him in private. What was she doing here now? John thought warily.

"Hello, Professor," she greeted him with a smile that was a spitting image of the physiotherapist's, and which therefore received a repudiating frown for an answer.

"Miss Granger, you must be perfectly aware of the fact that I am not to be addressed by that title or that name any more."

The young woman's smile remained unperturbed, even deepened at this remark; she put the cup of tea on his bedside table and sat down in the chair next to his bed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't want to offend you, but for me you'll always be Professor Snape, the strict potions master of Hogwarts, even if you've changed your name and your identity."

He sighed. 'Always be Professor Snape' indeed. Obnoxious girl. Why couldn't she simply address him as 'John Smith', as all the others did? And what was she up to, settling down in his bedside chair as if for a long stay? He didn't want company now, he wanted to be left alone with his exhaustion and his cup of tea.

"Why are you here, Miss Granger?" he asked cautiously.

The healer's vexatious smile finally faded and, suddenly looking much less confident, she started working on her lower lip with her front teeth.

"Well, Prof…, oh, alright, _Mr Smith_, actually, first of all I'd like to say thank you."

His eyes narrowed. Say 'thank you'? Whatever for? He certainly had never done anything for this girl.

"Thank you for what? The knowledge you acquired in my brilliant lessons?"

"No. I mean, ...yes, of course. I learned a lot in your lessons..."

His sarcastic snort made her stop und lose track, the self-confidence she had displayed on entering the room seemed to be vanishing by the minute. Her fingers started pleating her robes.

"There's something else I have to thank you for, Sir. What we learned from your memories…or rather, what Harry learned and told us…All the sacrifices you made...And all the time you were working so hard to protect us. And we never noticed, we had no idea of your real character, we even believed you evil through and through…And then you were dead, ...I mean, we believed you dead, and no one could tell you how much we appreciated what you had done. I'm so sorry, Prof…Sir."

John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, praying for patience. When he opened his eyes again, they were calm and expressionless.

"Miss Granger, there is no need for your developing qualms about my past well-being. What I did was part of my obligations towards Dumbledore and..." he hesitated briefly, exhaling loudly before continuing, "Lily Evans. In fact, I didn't have much of a choice."

"You could have stayed on the Dark Side. Or returned to Voldemort…"

"I didn't," he simply said.

"You must have been so lone…"

"Miss Granger!" There was a dangerous undertone in his voice now. "Don't wallow in the atrocities of the past. It is over. I don't want to be judged by whatever I did in this former existence as Severus Snape. I've had the chance of starting a new life, and I intend to use it."

He glared at her and the young woman met his eyes, frowning.

"Does that mean you won't return to our world, that you'll remain John Smith and live as a Muggle?" she asked incredulously.

He sighed and stared at her. Why on earth did she care? Wearily he ran a hand over his face.

"I don't know, Miss Granger. I haven't decided yet. And, anyway, what business is it of yours?"

"Perhaps you don't have to decide."

His eyes narrowed. What was the girl up to now? She clearly was uncomfortable, there was not much of the self-confident know-it-all left. He almost felt sympathetic.

She took a deep breath and fidgeted in her chair.

"Well, you see, Sir, you can belong to both worlds. We Muggleborns do. I was a witch at Hogwarts with all my heart, 100 percent..."

"Really?"

He exaggerated the sarcasm in his voice, his mouth twitched and she smiled back at him, realizing that he was teasing her.

"Oh, yes, absolutely. But in the holidays, with my parents, I was a Muggle."

He saw a brief shadow pass over her face and the question came without thinking.

"What happened to your parents, Miss Granger? Are they dead?"

She shook her head with a wry smile.

"No, they live. But I altered their memories and sent them to Australia during Voldemort's reign. And, well, something must have gone wrong with the spell I used, it can't be reversed. They are perfectly well and happy, they just don't remember having a daughter."

"I'm sorry."

The young woman looked up and stared at him wide-eyed. Then she laughed, shaking her head.

"So it's true, Sir. You do have changed."

He gave her a questioning frown.

"I'm sure, you would never have said that you were sorry for someone in your old life, Sir."

He swallowed hard. So here it was again, Severus Snape, the callous bastard. With a deep breath he tried to drive the thought away.

"From what I know about your past, Miss Granger, I'm convinced that you would rather have bitten off your tongue than admit making a mistake with a spell, wouldn't you?"

She looked taken aback for a moment, but then smiled.

"Oh! Well, yes, maybe you're right."

John pressed the balls of his hands against his eyes. He suddenly felt immensely tired.

"So you came here to tell me that it is possible to be at home in both worlds, Miss Granger?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Yes, Sir. And nowadays it's even easier than before the war. There's no discrimination against Mudbloods anymore."

He cringed at the word. She didn't notice and went on.

"The ceremony of Secrecy has been in high demand recently, and not only because of you."

He couldn't help smiling wryly. Sister Mary Claire had taken the oath, of course, together with one or two of the other nuns who had insisted on visiting John in hospital.

The girl continued, using the fingers of her left hand to emphasize her enumeration of the positive development of the wizard-Muggle relationship.

"The Ministry of Magic has started to cooperate with the Muggle government more than ever before. They hold regular conferences once a month. Muggle studies has become one of the most important subjects at Hogwarts. It is compulsory for all students and they have recruited a second teacher. At the Healing Academy they teach Muggle methods like vaccination, cancer treatments and all kinds of surgery alongside the traditional magical ways of healing. In turn, there are wizards and witches teaching at medical schools. Muggles aren't able to perform spells, of course, but they can brew and use certain potions. St Mungo's in London has started cooperating with several Muggle hospitals and they're planning to do the same here in Edinburgh. So you see..."

He held up his hand to stop the flow of words.

"Yes, Miss Granger, I see. What I don't see is your point. What, in your opinion, does all that have to do with me?"

"But don't you understand, Sir, if the two communities come together, living as a wizard in a Muggle environment or vice versa is no problem. You can stay at the convent, go on working for them and yet become a wizard again. Or you could return as Severus Snape and keep up your contact with the nuns and with…"

"You seem to be quite sure that I want to live as a wizard, Miss Granger."

"But, Sir..."

He laughed mirthlessly.

"I can't do magic anymore."

"Perhaps not at the moment, but it's still there, deep inside you. All you have to do is acquire a wand and learn the spells and the movements again."

"I have lived without spells and wands for three years, Miss Granger, and I have managed perfectly well. I don't think I need magic."

"It is useful, you know. Without magic you would most probably be dead now."

He grimaced, knowing that she was right. Magic had saved his life. Wizards had gone out of their way to save his life. Did they expect him to show his gratitude by returning into the wizarding fold?

"Miss Granger, I'm grateful for what you and your colleagues have done for me. But I don't think I'll want to use magic again myself."

"But, Sir, it would be such a waste. You were a powerful wizard..."

The pained expression on his face made her stop. John turned his head and stared out the window, swallowing hard. There it was again. The fear. It started in the pit of his stomach and engulfed him like a giant wave, threatening to drown him. He had changed, the girl herself had said so five minutes ago. He wanted to stay like this, he didn't want to have his old personality back. And he was afraid that waking the magic that lay dormant deep inside him would do just that. Change him back into Severus Snape, make him lose everything he had worked for these last three years. His new life, his friends, Vivian; he didn't want to swap them for magic, however useful.

Slowly he turned his head and looked at the girl who was watching him closely. His first impulse was to throw her out, send her on her way with a few well-phrased stinging remarks. But there was something in those brown eyes that stopped him. Something he would have called 'pity' and sneered at in his former life; something he had often seen at the convent and had learned to identify as real concern and empathy. She was trying to be kind, to help him. She didn't know about his fears and doubts. He swallowed again, and instead of pulling the reed stop of sarcasm he opted for the more moderate diapason of conciliation.

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger, I'm feeling rather tired. I'll think about your arguments. Thank you for coming, but now I'd like to be left alone."

The healer looked as if she wanted to protest but thought better of it and nodded reluctantly.

John picked up the tea cup and handed it to her.

"Would you be so kind as to fetch me a new cup of tea? The one you brought is stone-cold by now, I'm afraid. No, Miss Granger," he intervened when he saw her reach for her wand, "don't try to reheat this one. There's nothing more disgusting than reheated tea with milk."

The healer looked at him, obviously at a loss for words. He met her eyes with the shadow of a smile. She shrugged and smiled back lopsidedly; taking the cold tea she got to her feet, turned and left the room.

John leaned back against the pillows with a deep, exhausted sigh.

_**Thanks to J.K. Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot.**_


	22. Chapter 22

_Dear readers, thank you very much for your reviews. I apologize for not answering them individually – I'm very busy in the weeks before Christmas and I thought you'd rather want me to complete another chapter. So here it is..._

**Twenty-two**

Vivian's eyes wandered around the room surreptitiously; she was careful not to show her curiosity too blatantly. For the first time in her life she was inside convent walls and she was impressed by the fact that everything looked so perfectly ordinary. The was nothing medieval or mystic about the place, no dark and damp stone walls, no eerie light from stained-glass windows, no murky shadows in high, vaulted ceilings. The beige-coloured walls of the corridors and the dark, polished wooden floors covered with sturdy sisal carpets created an atmosphere of old-fashioned functionality. Mother Mary Barbara's office looked friendly and comfortable in the late afternoon sunshine coming in through the large window. Three walls were lined with bookshelves, the fourth was dominated by a plain wooden crucifix. A massive desk and some file cabinets occupied the corner near the window, the other half of the room contained several well-worn armchairs grouped around a small coffee table.

In this part of the room the four women were seated, drinking tea and making small talk, none of them eager to start discussing the more serious issue they had come for: The future of John Smith aka Severus Snape.

"So he is going to be discharged the day after tomorrow?" Mother Mary Barbara finally asked, having finished her second cup of tea.

It was a rhetorical question, as all of them were informed about the state of John's convalescence.

Sister Mary Claire nodded. She was well acquainted with the healers and nurses on John's ward by now, indulging in the exchange of medical knowledge whenever she visited him. And she was also well informed about the patient's general state of mind.

"They say the stronger he gets the more restless, irritable and taciturn he becomes," she said, shaking her head with concern.

"He is aware of the fact that the Ministry won't wait much longer, he has to make up his mind," Minerva McGonagall explained.

"When he was in the hospital at Kilnarnock, it was the same," Vivian said gravely. "And then he ran away."

"Well, he can't do that in our hospital. Magic prevents unauthorized people from leaving or entering the building."

"Doesn't that make patients feel like prisoners?" Sister Mary Claire looked shocked.

"It's simply a question of security. They can't allow patients receiving magical treatment run away into the streets of a Muggle city, or have Muggles straying in and wandering all over the place," said the witch.

Sister Mary Claire made an unconvinced noise and reached for her teacup to take another thoughtful sip.

"So, how can we help him?" She put her cup back on the saucer and returned to the purpose of their meeting.

"Maybe it would be best if you wizards just left him alone. He was happy when he didn't know about being one of your kind," Mother Mary Barbara said, addressing her sister sternly and looking at the other two Muggles for approval.

"But now that he knows," Minerva McGonagall replied impatiently, "it can't be helped, he has to decide. Magic is an important part of a wizard's identity, you can't simply ignore it. It will always be there and if you don't practise it properly, it's bound to come out by itself some day and the consequences can be fatal. Thus even if you don't use it you have to acknowledge it and employ certain measures to keep it under control. In a way this can be much more demanding than acting it out."

"I don't think he'll want to live as a wizard ever again. Taking up magic again to him means returning to the connections with a past he hates and with all those people who hated and despised him and perhaps still do..."

"Merlin, Diana," her sister exploded, square glasses flashing indignantly, "we, the people from his past, apologized. We had meetings and endless talks at the Ministry, we visited him in hospital, we talked to him, explained the situation. What else can we do?"

"There's nothing you can do. It's too late, you can't alter the past."

The nun stared at her sister, slightly red in the face, lips clenched.

"I agree with you, Diana, you can't alter the past. But you can leave it behind, overcome ill feelings. Years have passed since the Last Battle...

"There are wounds time isn't able to heal!"

"Surely Severus..."

"John!"

"...is old enough and intelligent enough not to succumb to his emotions. He should consider the pros and cons rationally and then he'll see that using his magic is the only way of living for him."

"Now, isn't this the typical arrogance of wizards! Why is it the only way for him? He had a good life without doing magic, he was excellent at his job here in the convent. The fact that your way of life includes the ability of making something change into something else or lighting a candle without matches doesn't make it any superior to ours."

The sisters glared at each other, scowling and out of breath.

"I think it has more to do with himself than with the wizarding community in general. He's afraid of himself," Vivian said quietly in the ensuing bellicose silence.

The others turned towards her questioningly.

"Afraid of himself?" Minerva McGonagall echoed.

The younger woman sighed.

"He still cannot accept Severus Snape. He doesn't want to go back to being him. He was happy when he was just John Smith and very unhappy when he was Severus Snape. What would you prefer?"

"Oh. Are you sure? How do you know?" The Mother Superior asked.

"I talked to him quite a lot over our weekend together."

"So you mean that he doesn't accept his magical self?"

"Something along that line, yes."

"Hm. Is there anything we can we do about that?"

Vivian shrugged.

"I don't know, I'm not a psychologist. Maybe we could show him that we accept him with both his personalities..."

The women sighed in unison, busying themselves with tea cups and biscuits to hide their frustration.

"So basically, what you are saying is that he is afraid of using magic?" Sister Mary Claire started the discussion again, tapping her nose with her forefinger thoughtfully.

Vivian nodded.

"On the other hand magic is a part of his personality, so in fact he should use it without thinking..."

Minerva McGonagall made an affirmative noise.

"Right, so perhaps if he tried it, experienced once again what it feels like, well, just a little bit..."

"You don't try magic just a little bit," Minerva McGonagall intervened categorically.

"Magic is nothing you can trifle with, it must be taken seriously at all times."

The nun acknowledged this argument with an impatient gesture of her right hand.

"Yes, of course. What I want to say is that if magic is part of his nature, performing it should come natural, like walking or writing, even after a magic-free interval of several years, even if he insists he doesn't know how to do it anymore."

Minerva McGonagall gave a hesitating nod and the nun continued.

"Maybe he could just try some simple spell, you know, nothing really serious, something like... " she looked around the room for inspiration, "...making a spoon stir the tea on its own..."

"My dear Sister Mary Claire, this is quite an advanced kind of charm!"

"Well, whatever. There must be something simple and innocent he can be persuaded to do just to see what it is like."

The witch didn't answer, she seemed lost in thought.

"Minerva?" her sister said tentatively.

Slowly the hard lines of the witch's face relaxed.

"He'll need a wand," she said quietly, "and a spell book – for beginners."

She smiled at Sister Mary Claire.

"I'll see to that. I think it could work if we go about it very, very carefully; he won't, however, react favourably to any attempts from the wizarding side."

The square-rimmed glasses turned to Vivian, who blushed at the unexpected attention.

She cleared her throat.

"Is it my job?"

The witch nodded gravely.

"I think you are the obvious choice, Ms Baker."

The other two women expressed their consent to this opinion.

Vivian sighed.

"Well..."

"Surely his using magic won't alter your feelings for him?" Minerva McGonagall asked anxiously.

Vivian let out a small laugh.

"I've no idea of the consequences using magic may have, but I can't imagine that it will change the man completely."

Running a hand through her hair she smiled sheepishly.

"I'd do anything to make him happy and content, I..." she swallowed hard, feeling tears of emotion prickling behind her eyes.

"I love him," she ended simply, lowering her eyes, not daring to meet the others' glances.

There was an embarrassed silence.

Then Minerva McGonagall cleared her throat energetically.

"We know," she said, her voice still hoarse, her eyes blinking vigorously behind her glasses.

"And we wish you luck, Ms Baker. Sev...John has always been a very difficult and proud man. We can only try, keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best. But try we must."

"He won't like it," Vivian said thoughtfully.

"Huh!'Won't like it' is a euphemism if ever there was one," Sister Mary Claire confirmed.

Minerva McGonagall sighed.

"I'm sure he will be furious when he learns of our meddling in his life. There's absolutely no guarantee that our little scheme will work. Perhaps he'll hex you into next week..."

"...which would be splendid because it means he'll have to use magic," the nun said dryly.

Vivian grimaced.

"You have to be very diligent and careful to choose the right moment," the witch continued after sending a disapproving flash of glasses towards Sister Mary Claire.

Vivian nodded and answered the expectant gazes by managing a brave smile while groaning inwardly. What on earth had she got herself into? She had absolutely no idea of how to make John Smith use magic. What if he reacted by hurting her? Or running away? Or by throwing her out and eradicating the fragile sapling of their relationship?

She felt a warm hand on her own and looked up to meet Mother Mary Barbara's eyes. They were full of concern, understanding and encouragement.

With a deep breath Vivian nodded again.

_Thanks to J. for letting me borrow characters and plot_


	23. Chapter 23

**Twenty-three**

Although Vivian had been in hospital only once, as a teenager, when she'd had her tonsils removed, she remembered that on returning home she at first had felt unreal and out of place, like a stranger in the familiar surroundings of her home. Watching John wandering around his room aimlessly, haphazardly picking up things and putting them down again, she could see that he had similar feelings.

They had just arrived at his quarters; the small overnight bag containing his toiletries and pyjamas was still sitting on the only chair, unopened. John had been eager to leave the confines of the hospital and glad that she had come to pick him up and take him to the convent; however, they had talked very little during the fifteen-minute drive except some non-committal remarks about hospital routine, the weather and Saturday morning traffic. Vivian knew he was making an effort, but that underneath the surface of these social platitudes he was tense and nervous.

His quarters were small and sparsely furnished, it didn't take him long to find the parcel that was lying on the chest of drawers, neatly wrapped in brown paper, with his name and address printed on a small white label. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, looking at Vivian enquiringly.

Vivian shrugged, trying very hard to keep an expression of innocence on her face.

"Something delivered during your absence? A welcome-back present? Why don't you open it?" she asked, mildly surprised at the fact that her voice worked.

He scowled at her, then at the parcel, before slipping his finger under the sellotaped flap, carefully loosening the strip of tape and removing the paper. There were two smaller parcels inside, also neatly wrapped; one could easily be identified as a book by its proportions, the other one was long and slim. John exhaled violently, put it on the table with utmost care, stood back and stared at it for a long time. Then he cast a suspicious glance in Vivian's direction.

"Whose idea of a joke is this?" he hissed.

Vivian felt her mouth go dry. She attempted a careless shrug and a blank-faced expression of cluelessness.

"Sorry? Is there a problem? I don't know anything about it. I...I've no idea what it is... But whoever sent it meant you to open it." Her voice sounded horribly false to her ears. John narrowed his eyes and watched her closely. She forced her lips into a smile. He raised a doubtful eyebrow.

"You have no idea...well..."

He picked up the parcel. She could see that his hands were shaking. With a swift movement he tore the paper away, revealing a slim black cardboard box. A small white card with a handwritten note fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up and Vivian edged closer, trying to read the words.

'Mr Boxwood, the new wand maker at Olivander's, sends his regards. He thinks that ebony with a core of hair from a Thestral's tail is the perfect wand for a wizard who stared death in the face. M. McGonagall.'

"What does this meddlesome old hag think she's doing?" John said, almost choking with fury, and tossed the note on the floor. For a moment it looked as if he would hurl the box across the room, but something stopped him, he held it awkwardly, turning it in his hands in helpless indecision. Vivian looked on, holding her breath, biting her knuckles. His next steps would decide everything, and there was absolutely nothing she could do to prompt him ...

After what seemed like an eternity John closed his eyes for a second as if he was praying, then opened the box. Inside there was an elegant looking tapering stick made of black, polished wood, about the same length as a conductor's baton but sturdier, lying on a bed of green velvet.

Vivian watched as John's long forefinger ran along the smooth surface slowly. She couldn't see his face from where she was standing, but the gesture was almost a caress.

Then his middle finger and thumb joined the forefinger and the stick was lifted from its resting place. Vivian tiptoed closer, eager to see John's expression.

"Is this a wand?" she asked softly.

He nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes closed, his face pale and rigid.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, admiring both the smooth black wood and the long white fingers holding it. She felt the impulse to raise her hand and touch these fingers, but was too much in awe of the perfectly crafted symbol of magic to give in to it.

She could hear him swallow.

"Yes," he answered, opening his eyes and looking at her. His eyes had lost their usual impenetrable shield; they were wide, glittering and full of reverent wonder.

A small flicker of hope started to glow in Vivian's heart.

"Can you... do magic with it?" she asked hesitatingly.

His eyes focused on her.

"Magic?" he echoed. He made a series of slow, hesitating movements with the wand, causing a few lazy red sparks to fly from its tip. Vivian shrank back instinctively. They both stared at the wand, which was motionless now, except for the slight trembling of the hand that held it.

"Wow!" Vivian breathed, too flabbergasted to think of anything more elaborate. "So it's true...you can do magic, John."

He shook his head, his face had gone deathly pale.

"I can't. I don't remember what to do. It's been so long... It's gone."

There was fear and despair in his eyes now, he grasped the wand in so fierce a grip that his knuckles turned white, and was holding it as far away from his body as his arm would allow.

Vivian's heartbeat was a deafening noise in her ears. She had to do something, she simply had to! She couldn't let this chance go by unused. If only she could make her brain work properly...

Then she remembered the second parcel.

Picking it up from the table and forcing a smile on her lips she cleared her throat and said,

"Perhaps this can help you. It looks like a book. Shall I open it?"

He didn't answer, just stared at her.

Vivian took this as a 'yes' and tore the paper away.

"Useful Spells for Many Occasions – a Manual for Beginners," she read, and when he still didn't respond she opened it and flipped through the crisp new pages.

"Here... _Reparo_, that looks easy."

She held out the book for him to see.

Reluctantly, as if against his better judgement, he dragged his attention to the page, scanning the text and the diagrams. Slowly he raised his wand and practised the movements, totally absorbed in the process; he seemed to have forgotten about her. Vivian watched him in silent fascination until a thought struck her.

"Shouldn't you have something you can repair?" she asked, making him stop abruptly. They both scanned the room – there was nothing in need of repair. Vivian was about to pick up the torn bits of wrapping paper for him to practise with when she had a better idea.

"Wait...I've got a ladder in my tights!"

She kicked off her left shoe, revealing a hole at the big toe and a ladder running from it halfway up her instep. She raised her foot for him to see and John stared at it for a long time before pointing the tip of his wand at the ladder.

"_Reparo_," he said and his voice was barely audible. He added the wand movement and the damaged fabric started mending itself, first the ladder vanished and finally the hole closed.

"Wow," Vivian repeated, shaking her head, trying very hard to believe what she had just witnessed. "Goodness, John, this is great, fantastic, absolutely brilliant!"

She wiggled her toes enthusiastically, balancing precariously on one leg, beaming at him with joy.

_Thanks to J. for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	24. Chapter 24

_Sorry, I didn't get around to answering all the reviews individually, which doesn't mean that I don't appreciate each and every one of them very much. So, thank you very much for your feedback and criticism, and I hope you'll stay with me for two more chapters.  
_

_Leliha  
_

**Twenty-four**

John stood rooted to the spot, rigid, his wand still half-raised and vaguely pointing in the direction of Vivian's foot. His eyes were staring at her face without really taking it in. Her joy and enthusiasm didn't penetrate the consternation he was engulfed in, his mind trying to cope with comprehending the enormity of what just had happened. He had done magic at last; against all odds he had performed a spell, performed it successfully... A simple one admittedly, and employed to achieve something extremely trivial, but a spell nevertheless. What now? Should he cry out in triumph? Or recoil in horror? He felt no inclination to do either, in fact he felt empty, dazed, tired, numb and – at the same time – strangely and inexplicably satisfied. It was like gaining full command of all one's faculties, like being able to use a limb when a plaster cast was removed or like being able to breathe freely and distinguish different flavours again after a severe case of cold; it was like being whole again. The wand in his hand felt good, it was part of him, an extension of his right hand – magic was part of him... However, was that a road he could take? So far, he had vehemently rejected any suggestions of becoming a member of the magical community once more, and what had he done now? He had let himself be persuaded to use magic. No, 'persuaded' wasn't the right word to describe things adequately. In fact, nobody really had persuaded him, despite Minerva's and Vivian's and probably Sister Mary Claire and Mother Mary Barbara's little plot. He had seen through that as soon as he had found the parcel; Vivian had probably done her best, but she was no actress, her face was an open book for him to read. He could have resisted, could simply have refused to accept the parcel or at least have refrained from opening the wand box. As easy as that... But he had played along, thus giving in, not to the women's schemes, but, as he knew perfectly well, to his own desire, to an irresistible urge to touch a wand and to use it, his previous resolutions notwithstanding... He himself had to accept sole responsibility for what had happened. What would he do now? Could he try to make things undone, pretend that he wasn't interested; could he put the wand back in its box, return it to Minerva McGonagall, trying to forget everything, and then run away and hide, hoping that the wizards would never bother him again?

Was this really an option? It would mean leaving behind the place he called home, the work he enjoyed, leaving behind all the people he had grown to like. He would be alone again. It would mean leaving Vivian... Vivian...And the wand belonged to him, it didn't want to go back into the box, it wanted to be used – by him. So should he start living as a wizard, resume his existence as Severus Snape with all the consequences this would have? Severus Snape, who was still known as a powerful wizard and a potions expert, who had never been able to make friends, who had been despised by most people, whose only love affair had been an utterly one-sided and unhappy one – would he, John, whom people accepted and even liked, whose current magical expertise, however, consisted of nothing but vague memories of potions and spells, lose the few friends he had made, would he lose Vivian by improving his knowledge of magic and by returning to his old self? Oh, damn, damn, damn...

"John?"

Vivian had stopped admiring her once again flawless tights, she was standing on both legs, one foot still shoeless, and was watching him closely.

'John'. Was he 'John'? Could he continue being 'John' after this experience?

"John? Talk to me! Are you alright?"

There was concern in her voice.

He struggled to emerge from the tangle of his thoughts and concentrated on the woman in front of him.

"I...I don't know. I think, I'm fine."

"Well, you don't look fine. Maybe doing magic was too much of a strain on your first day out of hospital...I'm so sorry, I should have thought of that."

John shook his head slowly.

"Don't worry. That's no problem. But I feel so..."

He frowned, looking for a word to describe his feelings adequately.

"...complete," he said with a desperate sigh.

"Complete?" she repeated with a frown. "Oh! Complete!" she said again, and, to his surprise, smiled at him.

"That's great, isn't it? It shows that you're meant to be a wizard after all."

"I...," he put the wand down on the table next to him. "I don't want to feel like this, I don't want to become Snape again, I..." He stopped, realizing that he sounded like a toddler about to throw a tantrum.

Vivian took his wand hand resolutely and cradled in her hands. Her palms were soft and warm, comforting to his stiff, icy fingers.

"For me you are John, and you'll always remain John, with or without a wand and magic."

He looked at her dubiously. Could it work like this, so easily? Certainly not. After all, she had no idea what magic really implied.

Undeterred by his unresponsive attitude Vivian made a new start.

"You've left your old life behind, John; Severus Snape died. I didn't know this man, he's only a name to me; you, however, I do know."

She squeezed his hand for emphasis.

"You are John, for heaven's sake, and …you are the only man I've ever felt at home with right from the start, you are the man I like...the man...the man I love; I don't give a damn if you happen to be a wizard."

She stopped, out of breath, staring at him defiantly.

John blinked, wondering if he had heard correctly, disbelief spreading on his face. Had she just said that she loved him? Good Lord, could it be true? No one had said these words to him…ever. Even his own mother…no, he couldn't remember her saying them. And …so far he had not dared think about his feelings for Vivian or dared put them into words, now however, all of a sudden, he was sure, he wanted to answer 'I love you, too', but his voice wouldn't co-operate. A low moan was the only verbal reaction he could manage. She was still holding his hand, looking at him with apprehensive expectation.

He shrugged helplessly, suddenly feeling very weak and dizzy. Afraid that his legs wouldn't support him any longer, he gently pulled his hand away, stepped back and sank on the chair, his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands, hiding the turmoil of emotions that he couldn't hope stopping from being displayed on his face.

After a while, he had regained enough composure to trust his voice.

"I doubt it can work like this," he said hoarsely, staring at the table in front of him, fighting against the desire to belief her.

"And why not? Stop being so damn stubborn, John Smith! Give me one sensible, profound, irrefutable reason why it can't work!" Vivian cried, pacing up and down behind the chair in an exasperated way.

"I am Severus Snape, for heaven's sake, that's why! I can't deny it, neither my history nor my personality. The other wizards know exactly who I am, have known me for half a lifetime..."

"So what? Those who are interested should have realized by now that the past is well and truly over, your situation is completely different and this makes you a different man. Minerva may have problems getting used to your new name, but I think she has accepted that you are no longer the man she knew. Her sister must have given her countless lectures about your outstanding abilities and your excellent character. As for the other wizards – what reason is there to care about their opinion? You could limit your contact with them to the absolute minimum, couldn't you?"

He sighed, not wanting to be convinced by her arguments, plausible as they sounded. He could not shove all his fears and doubts out of the way and follow her advice. It was impossible, it would be extremely reckless. He was staring at the table, at the wand...his wand, a black contrast to the bright yellow tablecloth, his mind engaged in fierce debate.

"You make it seem so easy. But…magic is more than repairing tights, Vivian. Its impacts are more than skin-deep. You don't know what it may evoke in me..."

"You are a good man, John."

He shook his head and let out a deep breath.

"And Severus?"

"Must have been a good man, too. Brave and loyal, from what I've heard. It was just the circumstances that..."

He snorted.

"The circumstances. Quite. Always the perfect excuse."

"John, please, don't do that. Stop painting yourself in the darkest possible colours."

"I was dark, unpleasant, evil...Do you really think it can work, that I will not fall back into my nasty old ways, my old patterns of behaviour once I have gained full control over my magic?" he said in a flat voice, still staring at the table. Vivian was standing behind the chair now, putting her hands on his shoulders, firm and reassuring.

"Why not?" her voice was so calm and confident, did she still not understand the danger?

"Because I..." he turned, glaring at her with angry, red-rimmed eyes. Her own eyes were as calm as her voice, stopping him in mid-sentence, making him think again. Another pause, even longer. The silence around them was absolute, as if the outside world had ceased to exist. It was just the two of them and he had to decide on the course of his future life. And of hers. Vivian, the woman who loved him, the woman he loved.

After endless minutes of tense anticipation, John swallowed hard and nodded, managing the ghost of a smile.

"Yes, perhaps you're right, why not?"

Vivian made an odd little movement with her head, stared at him speechlessly for a second; then she wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on the top of his head. All of a sudden, he realized how tense she had been with fear and that her relief now was almost palpable. He let his head rest against her chest, giving in to exhaustion and the need to be comforted by the touch of another human being. His hands found hers and he held them in a desperate grip, drawing strength and confidence from the contact.

"I don't understand why you put up with me, Vivian. I don't deserve you," he said, his thumb caressing the back of her hand.

She sighed, kissing the back of his neck.

"I don't understand it either," she whispered. "I just love you and…"

A knock at the door made her draw back; her foot hastily feeling around for her shoe on the floor.

"Enter." John said, his voice calm and composed after a hesitant pause.

It was Sister Mary Claire.

"Welcome back, John. We wondered if you would like some tea. Mother Mary Barbara…"

She stopped abruptly when she noticed the wand on the table, her eyes grew wide and she cast an enquiring look at Vivian.

Vivian answered with a smile and a small nod and turned towards John.

"Can't you use magic to make tea?" she asked and reached for the manual.

John's hand stopped her.

"I'm sure there is a spell for making tea, but… I prefer it prepared in the conventional way."

He gave the wand a casual little push.

"I've had enough of magical experiments for my first day out of hospital, I think."

Slowly and deliberately he turned away from the wand and got up. Offering his arm to Vivian gallantly he said, "Tea is an excellent idea, Sister Mary Claire. We're coming."

_Thanks to Ms Rowling for letting me borrow charcters and plot._


	25. Chapter 25

_Thanks for all the reviews, and if I get some for this chapter I really hope I'll have enough time to answer them. ;)_

**Twenty-five**

"Well, well, well, without doubt this is the most confusing and complicated case I've come across in my entire career."

Shaking his head, the white haired wizard in the pin-striped robes and a tie that matched the colour of his dark blue eyes, extracted some sheets of paper full of printed script from the thin file he had been leafing through, closed the folder and put it on top of several others, older and much more voluminous ones, sitting in a neat pile on the right hand side of his polished desktop. He put the papers down on the desk pad before him and straightened them; then he looked up, removing his gold-rimmed reading glasses and focusing on the three people in front of his desk.

"Mr Smith, you have applied for admittance into the wizarding community of Great Britain on account of your recently discovered ability to do magic..."

His blue gaze concentrated on the man in the middle, who reacted with an almost imperceptible nod. The reading glasses were put on again and the official consulted the papers.

"Your magic has been confirmed by several trustworthy witnesses and you have passed the written wizarding test with outstanding results, which is absolutely amazing. Nobody has accomplished that so far..."

He looked at another paper in front of him, shaking his head in admiration.

"So your becoming a member of the wizarding community of Britain is only a matter of signing this form..."

His forefinger, slightly gnarled with arthritis, landed on another paper.

"...and paying the administration fee. However,..."

The official sat back in his chair and eyed the three people in front of him with an expression of mild reproach.

"...what makes proceedings complicated is the fact that according to the particulars concerning your identity you are in fact Severus Snape, who has been presumed dead since the Battle of Hogwarts. Your identity has been checked in the Ministry registers and confirmed by several high-ranking witnesses."

His gaze now travelled to the man and the woman sitting next to John.

"According to your statement here you would prefer to keep the Muggle name John Smith in order to avoid the attention and curiosity connected with the personage of Severus Snape."

John nodded.

"You understand that by doing so you forego your entitlement to an Order of Merlin, First Class, as well as to your pension as a war hero."

Again, John nodded. The official sighed.

"This is all very well and perfectly understandable, but as, on the other hand, you would like to retrieve the memories you presented to Harry Potter during the Battle of Hogwarts..."

The pinstriped man leaned closer towards John, fixing him with a severe stare over the rims of his spectacles, and putting his hands together in concentration, fingertips joining fingertips.

"...this means that instead of completing the process with a straightforward administrative act we need to make a detour. First, we have to stage your resurrection as Severus Snape, thus enabling you to retrieve the memories, which have been charmed in such a way as to allowing none other but the true owners – either you or Mr Potter – to touch them. Afterwards we must use an '_oblittero_' spell on the register and let Severus Snape rest in peace again. Then you'll begin your life as John Smith and we can enter your new name in our lists. This is not only extremely time-consuming an act, it also means that you must pay the administration fee twice."

"I know – can you just get on with things," John said impatiently.

"Very well, Mr Snape – it is my duty to point this out to you," the official replied with offended dignity and handed over one of the papers.

"It's alright, Mr Toadbury; Sev...John is well-informed about the procedure, we've talked it over in detail," the tall black man sitting next to John tried to placate.

"Be that as it may, Mr Shacklebolt, I must follow the rules. Now, Mr Smith, or Mr Snape rather, if you will please sign here...this is the confirmation that Severus Snape is still alive."

John took the proffered quill and signed his old name rather awkwardly. He had not used either signature or quills for quite a long time. The official took the document back and handed over another one, surveying both papers with something bordering on disgust.

"Paper," he said, shaking his head, "paper and computer script. Some of our people have also given up quills in favour of biros and felt-tips, and the use of computers is becoming more and more common here at the Ministry. What, in Merlin's name, has our world come to? What is wrong with quills and parchment?"

He looked at his visitors challengingly, and when there was no reaction, shook his head again and pointed at the paper.

"With this document, Mr Snape, you can go down to the Department of Mysteries and retrieve your memories. The official there will be _obliviated_ immediately afterwards so that he won't remember having met you. Mr Shacklebolt here will accompany you, showing you the way and performing the _obliviate_."

The two men pushed back their chairs and made to rise.

The official turned to the third visitor.

"Would you like a cup of tea while we are waiting, Minerva?"

The tea had a greyish hue and a single tentative sip convinced Vivian that it was indeed undrinkable. She almost gagged and put the mug on the table with a violent _bang_ that made the liquid slop over the rim. Looking for something that would be able to rid her taste buds of the disgusting dishwater flavour, she reached for the small packet of biscuits that had come with the tea.

What were they thinking, even if this cafe merely served as camouflage for the entrance to the Scottish Ministry of Magic and all the other patrons were Aurors in mufti they could have the decency to sell drinks that tasted acceptable. On the other hand,...Vivian frowned at the offensive mug, following this new idea...they certainly didn't want the place teeming with unsuspecting Muggle customers, so perhaps there was a purpose in the foul tasting liquids innocently labelled tea and coffee.

The biscuits were ordinary ginger nuts and Vivian struggled with a mouthful of spicy dryness, wondering if asking for a glass of water would be safe.

She decided to risk it; and when the water arrived, she examined it carefully, checking the colour and the smell of the liquid before taking a deep gulp. It tasted like water, plain tap water. Vivian let out a deep breath of relief and looked at her watch. Half an hour since she had arrived, thirty minutes...to her it seemed like an eternity.

How long would it take John to become a fully-fledged wizard again and deal with his memories? Hard to tell...she might as well get some work done. Emptying the glass and pushing the mug to the far side of the table while mopping up the spilt tea with a paper napkin, she unpacked her laptop and switched it on. When she started to type, the soft clicking sound of the keys seemed overly loud and looking up she realized that apart from the soft background music the room was silent. All the conversations had stopped, all the faces had turned towards her, watching her suspiciously. Silly wizards, Vivian thought furiously. Had they never seen a Muggle with a laptop before? Clenching her teeth, she tried to ignore the stares and concentrated on her work, fervently hoping that John would come back soon...

The young man couldn't help staring open-mouthed at the tall, thin man in front of him. It was HIM, no doubt about it, it was Severus Snape, his old potions master, the bane of hundreds of mediocre Hogwarts potions classes, the notorious Death Eater turned spy whom everybody had believed dead. He looked different, healthier and younger, despite the grey strands in his hair. Moreover, he was better groomed, clad in a well-cut dark blue suit, his hair less greasy and tied back in a ponytail. The large nose, however, was unmistakable, as was the characteristic forbidding posture with his arms crossed severely in front of his chest, making one feel like a timid first year again... The young man caught Snape's sardonic eye and felt his cheeks grow hot, berating himself silently for his stupid, childish and impolite behaviour.

After all, he was an ambitious Ministry official now, well on his way up a promising career ladder, not a student in awe of a terror-inspiring teacher any longer. Even if the man in front of his desk was the famous Severus Snape, returned from the dead, wanting to retrieve the equally famous memories that had originally been stored in the Department of Mysteries in London for three years and were now waiting for their rightful owner in the much smaller Scottish Department of Mysteries here in Edinburgh.

The soft chime of a bell sounded and a small purple box materialized somewhere near the ceiling, gliding smoothly down onto the desk at the command of the young man's slightly trembling wand.

"Here you are, Mr...eh....Professor....eh...Snape," he stammered, pushing the box towards his former teacher.

"You have to confirm the reception of the object with your signature, Sir," he added and pointed at a quill and a large tome open on the desk. His former teacher picked up the box and signed his name in the book. Then he and Kingsley Shacklebolt turned to go.

"Good bye, Professor Snape. It's... good that you... survived," the young man said, blushing a deep shade of red at his bravery.

Snape looked over his shoulder and answered with a curt nod. His companion turned round, his hand hidden in the pocket of his robes. He looked hard at the young man, who remained standing, staring into space, his eyes glazing over instantly. Shacklebolt's wand came out of his pocket and performed a quick spell over the page of the book on the desk. Then the two men left.

"I have arranged for a pensieve and a spare office," Skacklebolt said when they had reached the stairs. "It's on the next floor, first door on the right. You know what you must do. When you are ready, join me in Toadbury's office."

John nodded and went upstairs.

The red light started blinking – unexpectedly and much too soon, as always. 'Low battery status' – the irritating warning popped up on the screen, giving Vivian just enough time to save her work before the screen went black. With a sigh, she snapped her laptop shut and put it in its bag. She glanced at her watch. An hour since she had started working. What was John doing, what was taking him so long?

She tapped her fingers on the table, fidgeting with nervousness. She had taken the day off, so there was time enough at her disposal, but being forced to wait here, in ignorance of what was going on in the Ministry was extremely nerve-racking.

She was just wondering if she should order another glass of water when the waiter appeared at her table, carrying a small tray with a teapot and scones.

"My apologies for this..." he jerked his head at the old mug full of cold 'tea'.

"I didn't realise...thought you were one of those dreadful Muggles..."

He put the tray on the table.

"This is on the house. Order from above..." This time his head jerked in the direction of the Ministry entrance.

"It's real tea. Same stuff we serve to the Minister."

Vivian bit back a sarcastic retort and smiled gratefully, wondering where in the Ministry the order had come from and deciding that it didn't really matter. Real tea and scones with butter and jam – there were worse ways to pass the time. She dug into her bag for the paperback romance she had providently packed, found the page she had marked and started dealing with the scones...

John was sitting at the desk, the pensieve in front of him, the empty bottle lying next to it. He had his cheeks cupped in his hands and was staring at the far wall.

His memories had not improved by viewing them a second time. What a man he had been! What a life he had led! Slowly unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt, he pushed the white fabric away from his forearm. The Mark – in spite of being dead now, faded, harmless, it still remained repulsive, menacing and vile. It would always be an ugly, disgusting and dark part of his body, reminding him of the mistakes he had made, the wrong turns he had taken in his youth and of the atrocities he had been forced to commit.

Despite its creator being dead there was no chance of it ever vanishing completely, neither naturally nor with the help of human healing skills.

The memories were part of him too, even if he had them destroyed, their shadows would stay with him forever. They were part of his personality; it was no use denying them. Thoughtfully he traced the outlines of the Mark with his forefinger, watching the ripples of contortions his finger created by stretching the soft white skin. Goosebumps appeared at his touch and he shivered. The memories – would he be able to cope with them? On no account did he want them stored at the Ministry, he didn't want these strangers to be in possession of a part of his mind. Destroying them, on the other hand, would feel as if some part of him was wiped out once and for all. So what did that leave him with? John straightened in the chair, raising his arms above his head, stretching vigorously. There was only one option – he would have to take them back, accept the man he had been, come to grips with his past – whatever that would mean for him. Did he have the strength for that? He groaned, running his hands through his hair, pulling the strands loose from the ponytail. He had no choice, he had to do it. And this time he was not alone, there was a small network of people who supported him, people he could trust, friends...and there was Vivian who loved and accepted him in a way others...even Lily... had never been able to.

With a determined movement, he picked up his wand. Murmuring the words he had practised over and over again during the last few days, he held it over the pensieve and watched in fascination, as thin, silvery strands started to emerge from the stone basin and attached themselves to the tip of his wand. Forcing his hand to stay calm he moved the wand to his head and pressed the tip to his temple, holding his breath, waiting for something extraordinary to happen; however, there was only a strange tingling of the skin and then the strands had vanished. He exhaled deeply and readied himself to repeat the action...

Themistocles Toadbury had come over to the visitors' side of his desk, and soon they were chatting comfortably, talking about their school days and exchanging information about the current situations and whereabouts of several mutual friends. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been called away by an urgent message some time ago.

Somewhere along the line the cups of tea were joined by glasses of old single malt whisky, which soon became responsible for a certain amount of brightness in hyperopic eyes and a soft blushing on elderly cheeks. The knock on the door interrupted Minerva McGonnagal's fond reminiscences of a transfiguration spell gone wrong which had turned their teacher's chair into a galloping horse. Reluctantly she turned towards the door.

"Enter," Themistocles Toadbury said, pronouncing the two syllables with great care.

The door opened and in came Severus Snape – no, John Smith, no, still Severus Snape, pale and tired looking, a small empty bottle in his hand. He put the bottle on the desk and turned to face the two older wizards, his lip curling slightly when he saw the whisky bottle.

"I'm ready. Can we go on?"

Minerva McGonnagal pushed up her spectacles and her white-haired companion returned to his seat behind the desk with slow, deliberate steps.

"Certainly, Mr Snape. If you...if you would give me the document, please..."

John took a folded sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to the official, who held it in his left hand and picked up his wand, aiming at the paper. "_Deleto_,"he said and after three failed attempts, the paper vanished.

John took a deep breath.

"Well, that's that. And now, the next step: Mr Smith, welcome to the wizarding community."

With an exaggerated flourish he directed his wand at another paper.

"This document is valid now; your name will be added to the official register of wizards in Great Britain as soon as you have paid the fees. The cash desk is on the first floor, room 177, just follow the signs."

John took the document, and again his lips curled into an ironic smile.

"The fees...of course," he said, bowing slightly, his voice smooth and polite.

"Oh, Sev....John, I mean...you've done it! You've really done it. I'm so glad. Come here, my dear friend, a bit of celebration is in order, I think."

Minerva McGonnagal had got up from her chair, stepping forward a bit, her movements slightly insecure. Spreading her arms, she seemed intent on pulling her former colleague in an enthusiastic embrace. John, realising the danger, hastily took a step backwards and made for the door.

"Sorry, Minerva, no time for celebrations yet, I must pay the fees..."

Full of tea and scones, Vivian became so immersed in her paperback romance that she did not pay attention to her surroundings and even had forgotten to keep her eyes on the passage at the back of the cafe where the entrance to the Ministry was hidden. Suddenly the movement of someone sitting down at the opposite side of her table made Vivian look up from her novel with a start.

"John!" she exclaimed, dropping the book on the floor in surprise.

He picked it up, frowned at the title and handed it to her. Vivian looked at her watch.

"It took so long..."

John shrugged.

"A lot of red tape was involved..."

She looked at him closely.

"How do you feel... as a newly installed wizard?"

He snorted softly.

"Fine...Well, as a matter of fact, I don't feel any different at all..."

"Well, that's what we hoped for, didn't we?"

Again he shrugged.

"I suppose."

Once more Vivian eyed him critically. He didn't look 'fine', he looked worn out and tired.

"The memories...? Did you...?"

"I put them back where they belong."

His right hand touched his forehead.

"Good."

He nodded with a dubious frown.

"I hope so."

Vivian frowned back and exhaled deeply.

"Oh dear, ...not in the mood for celebrations, are you? Where are the others, by the way?"

He sighed wearily and waved his hand in the direction of the ministry entrance.

"Minerva was in a celebratory mood. I managed to slip away quietly. Vivian, look...can we just go home?"

His hand on the table made a half-hearted move to grasp hers, and he made no effort to hide the longing in his eyes. Suddenly she felt the urge to wrap him in her arms, hold him, comfort him, kiss him, and...

Feeling the heat rise in her cheeks and her mouth go dry, Vivian swallowed hard and picked up her cup, draining the last drops of cold tea to regain her composure and make her voice work.

"Home?" she repeated hoarsely, "yes, eh...absolutely, good idea. Your place or mine?"

For a short moment, he was at a loss for words, blinking helplessly. Then the corners of his mouth twitched.

"Well, since you ask...your flat offers more privacy than the convent, I think..."

Vivian felt another wave of heat in her face and made a show of stuffing her novel in her bag in an attempt to conceal her crimson cheeks.

When the heat had receded and she dared look at him again, his features were noticeably more relaxed, his smile had lost the strained quality. A quick nod of agreement and they pushed their chairs back, John reaching for the laptop and Vivian adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, when a commotion and a joyful shout at the back of the room made them stop in their tracks.

"John!" Minerva McGonnagal exclaimed, waving a tartan-clad arm, making all the heads turn and stare at them. John winced, muttering something rude under his breath and looking around for a possible route of escape. Finding none, he exchanged a quick glance with Vivian.

"Looks as if we can't avoid celebrations," he said grimly and _sotto voce, _facing the small group of people winding their ways through the chairs and tables with a scowl_._ Minerva, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley, all of them with happy smiles on their faces...

Vivian took his hand and squeezed it gently.

"Let's bow to the inevitable and face the music," she muttered with a sigh, and added, even more softly, "We can go home afterwards. It's only a pleasure deferred."

His arm went around her waist and he drew her close in brief consent, before surrendering to Arthur Weasley's congratulatory handshake.

_Thanks to Ms Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	26. Chapter 26

**Twenty-Six**

"What exactly is butterbeer?" Vivian asked, eyeing the amber liquid curiously. It didn't look any different from ordinary beer.

"Well, it's, uh...beer, butterbeer, well, our beer, wizarding beer," Arthur Weasley eagerly volunteered an explanation.

Vivian frowned.

"So is it any different from normal, I mean, our beer, Muggle beer?" she asked, stressing the last two words.

"It's less bitter," Arthur's wife, Molly, helped out, "And very nourishing. I used to drink gallons of it when I was breastfeeding the twins."

"It contains less alcohol than Muggle beer," Minerva McGonnagal continued explaining, "That's why underage wizards are allowed to drink it."

"You can drink it warm, it's good against colds," Molly Weasley added.

"Warm?" Vivian wrinkled her nose.

"Would you like to find out what it is like and try one?" The young man called Harry Potter asked, getting up to buy another round.

"Oh, well, I don't know..."

She looked at John for advice, but he only shrugged, his face saying 'please yourself'.

"If it is low-alcohol... yes, I'll have one."

They were gathered in the back room of the 'Cauldron of Blood', the, as Shacklebolt had pointed out, newly opened only wizarding pub in Scotland outside Hogsmeade. Situated in one of the smaller streets off the Cowgate, the pub's exterior did nothing to attract potential patrons. The windows were grimy and the grey harling walls still showed the shadows of graffiti that had defied the half-hearted efforts of removal. It looked the kind of pub Vivian would never have considered entering. However, once Shacklebolt had opened the door and ushered them all inside, the impression was a completely different one: Gleaming surfaces, clean carpets, dark, polished wood and shining brass ornaments. It was only mid-afternoon, still too early for the after-work crowd. The bar was almost empty and they had the backroom to themselves, where, to Vivian's surprise a small group of people was already waiting for them, among them Molly Weasley and Poppy Pomfrey, Hagrid, Miss Granger and several other younger people like Harry Potter, obviously all former students of John's Vivian hadn't heard of so far. Despite having met most of the people before, she suddenly couldn't help feeling a bit uncomfortable, realizing that she probably was the only person on the premises without a wand.

Introductions were made and John became the centre of attention, bearing the shower of congratulations with stoic patience and even allowing Molly Weasley to draw him into an awkward embrace. With Harry Potter he exchanged a handshake and a mute nod of understanding; another young man, who had been introduced to Vivian as Neville, kept shaking John by the hand while uttering incoherent words of apology and gratitude, until Miss Granger took pity and came to John's rescue. When the first rush of congratulations was over, everybody embarked on some variety of silly, stilted small talk to overcome the embarrassment of wanting to say so much and not really knowing how to say it. However, as time and the consumption of drinks progressed, the atmosphere grew more relaxed. Even John, who had absolutely refused to drink anything stronger than tonic water, explaining that any amount of alcohol, however small, would interfere with the medication St. Mirin's had prescribed against his cramps, lost his initial reserve and seemed to enjoy the company of his fellow-wizards.

"Here you are, your butterbeer."

Harry Potter put down the half-pint in front of Vivian with a flourish.

Self-consciously aware of the fact that all the others were watching her, she lifted the glass and took a small sip.

It did taste sweet, too sweet to her taste; it certainly wouldn't make it to her list of favourite drinks, but it wasn't bad either.

"It's...interesting," she answered the unasked question of the others. They laughed and everybody returned to their interrupted conversations.

Vivian's glass was half-empty, when she started to feel strange. Something seemed to be wrong with her breathing and there were hot flushes that made her want to run outside for fresh air. She excused herself, tried to get up and edge her way past Molly and Arthur when her legs gave way and she collapsed.

The next thing she knew was that she was lying on the floor, her head resting in Molly's lap, Poppy Pomfrey's concerned face hovering a few inches above her own, while the witch felt her pulse and did some examinations with her wand.

"...nothing serious, circulatory problems. But she should stay away from magic for a while and lie down and rest..."

"I'll take her home," John retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair. "I'll fetch your car, Vivian, where are the keys?"

"Handbag."

There were sympathetic noises, nods and comments from the others. He rummaged in her bag, muttering under his breath impatiently until he finally found the keys and left.

Vivian closed her eyes, shutting out the wizarding environment, hoping that the nausea settling in the pit of her stomach would go away.

John returned and helped her outside. The cold air was a relief and Vivian felt slightly better and able to give vent to her anger.

"Those horrible wizards...I thought they were friends, but they're arrogant bastards. I was so stupid...I shouldn't have tried that butterbeer. Low-alcohol, indeed...And you...you could at least have given me a hint that this was going to be a practical joke and that this vicious stuff is so strong."

"Actually, it isn't. Nobody played tricks on you, you were not drunk, Vivian, it's just that some Muggles react extremely badly to wizarding fare. Poppy told me when you passed out. It's good that you didn't eat anything of the cauldron cakes or pumpkin snacks or tried Firewhisky..."

"Don't mention these bloody things," she groaned miserably, adjusting the seat belt more comfortably on her shoulder and resting her head against the cool glass of the side window.

John signalled and turned right.

After a long and thoughtful silence, Vivian continued in a very small voice,

"What do you mean by 'react badly'? Is it like some kind of allergy?"

"Yes, from what Poppy said, you could say so."

"Shit. And I suspected your wizard friends...I'm sorry, really sorry. So it was my fault entirely," she said bitterly.

"It wasn't your fault. You can't be blamed for the way your body reacts."

He turned his head briefly and smiled at her, giving her arm a reassuring pat.

"We're nearly there."

When they reached her flat and went inside, she was hit by a wall of stale and warm air, and with a gagging noise she made a dash for the bathroom, where she barely made it to the toilet before she was violently sick. Bent over the cold porcelain bowl, giving in to the painful contractions of her stomach, she became aware of John's presence, of his hands on her shoulders, holding her hair back.

"Go away, leave me alone," she gasped, embarrassed that he should see the mess she was in.

He didn't reply, but simply stayed, waited until the fit had passed and helped her sit on the edge of the bathtub. He handed her a damp flannel to wipe her sweaty face.

"Thanks, but I can manage," she said, glaring at him.

"Without doubt you can," he replied calmly and passed her a tooth glass full of water.

Vivian rinsed her mouth and got up.

"I don't need your help," she said, making an enormous effort to keep her teeth from chattering. All of a sudden she felt very cold.

"You can leave me alone. I'm going to bed now."

"That's a very sensible decision," he remarked, eyeing her critically. "Have you got a hot water bottle somewhere?"

"In the cupboard outside, I think," she answered willingly, suddenly finding the idea of something hot against her body very attractive, "but I...."

"I know, you can manage and want to be left alone," he finished her protest and went in search for the hot water bottle.

Vivian didn't get warm. She had deposited the hot water bottle between her icy feet; it was almost too hot for the touch, but the heat somehow would not penetrate her limbs and reach the upper parts of her body. She still shivered uncontrollably under the duvet. Where was John? She didn't hear him in the flat, had he finally complied with her wishes and left? She really hoped so, she wanted to be alone, alone with her misery. What a nuisance she had been.

A rustling noise made her stiffen and listen. Was he still there? What was he doing? Why couldn't he just go away? She buried her face in the pillow; she didn't want to see him or talk to him. She didn't want his pity, she wanted to be alone.

There was a movement behind her, the edge of the duvet was lifted and the mattress dipped as the weight of another body joined her in the bed. A warm presence approached her shivering back, a reassuring arm was wrapped around her and drew her close. Vivian wanted to protest, wanted to tell him once again that he should leave, but somehow she couldn't. His solid warmth was comforting, the gentle movements of his warm hand massaging her stomach made her relax. With a little moan of relief and surrender she changed her position, fitting herself spoon-like against his body.

"What a bloody mess," she muttered, her eyes closed, breathing deeply in time with the rhythm of his hand.

"Shshshsh...it's alright," he replied softly, his voice muffled by her hair.

"Anyway, you should be better soon; it's all out now..."

He moved and placed a kiss on her neck.

"I'm sorry I spoilt your day," she continued, still angry with herself and determined not to let herself be comforted so easily.

"You didn't spoil anything. I'd had enough of the celebrations anyway and you provided me with an excuse for leaving."

"Oh yeah, to watch a stupid woman puking her guts out," she retorted.

"Vivian, for heaven's sake, stop it."

"You were enjoying yourself at the pub, weren't you?"

"I'm still enjoying myself," he replied with a hint of amusement in his voice and allowed his hand to stray towards her nipples before coming to rest on her stomach again. She could feel him take a deep breath, and when he spoke again, he sounded grave.

"Vivian, look, you've stayed with me when I was in a state much worse than this, and you helped me and cared for me. You've always been the one in control. Now our roles are reversed, so what? I'll stay with you, no matter if you are groomed and fit or ill and dishevelled. As they say, 'for better or for worse'."

For a short moment she lay perfectly still, holding her breath. Then she slowly turned and looked at him. His face was unreadable in the fading evening light, his eyes deep and dark, meeting her gaze with unwavering sincerity.

"For better or for worse," she repeated.

His mouth twitched in confirmation.

"As in always? Forever?"

Another twitch.

"God, John, I'm so sorry!"

He sighed in mock-exasperation.

"Is this becoming something of a leitmotif? What are you sorry for now, Vivian?"

"This allergy thing...I've heard Poppy Pomphrey say that I'd better keep away from magic...does it mean...that I must keep away from you?"

He considered the question for a moment. When he answered, all mockery had vanished from his voice; he was dead serious.

"No, I don't think so. You've never shown any symptoms before, so as long as you don't develop a craving for butterbeer or cauldron cakes..."

"...chocolate frogs..."

"... chocolate frogs, whatever, you should be alright. I intent to limit my use of magic to what is absolutely inevitable, and I certainly don't intend to use magic on you. The same applies to my contact with the wizarding community in general. Contrary to my apprehensions, meeting those people again was an interesting and agreeable experience, much more agreeable than I'd expected, but I'd prefer not to encourage too close a relationship with the wizarding world. Hence, even if you...really...agreed to...stay with me you wouldn't be exposed to the dangerous influences of magic very often."

"Good, and if ever we should go to that pub again I'll stick to Diet Coke."

"Diet Coke? Hm, very sensible I suppose..."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I think, I'm better."

"Are you?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Are you once again telling me to leave?"

"No, I'm not."

"So?"

"Could you go on enjoying yourself?"

"What? Oh...sure."

And his hand started its gentle, titillating journey across her body...

_Thanks to Ms Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	27. Chapter 27

**Twenty-seven**

"Enter."

Mother Mary Barbara got up as soon as John opened the door. She left her place behind her desk and came towards him.

"Thank you for coming, John, I hope you can spare a few minutes. Let's go for a walk, shall we?"

John raised his eyebrow questioningly, but when she made for the door without volunteering any further information, he shrugged resignedly and followed the Mother Superior downstairs into the courtyard.

"You and Vivian are still looking for a flat?" she asked as they were crossing the courtyard on their way to the garden. It was late spring and the weather was exceptionally balmy, with a clear blue sky, sunshine and no wind; the kind of weather that lifted people's spirits, made them smile at each other in the streets.

John sighed.

"Yes, we are, but we haven't been successful so far. We've had plenty of offers, but the flats we liked are too expensive, we can't afford the mortgages; whereas the ones we can afford..." he raised his hand in a depreciative gesture.

Mother Mary Barbara nodded her understanding.

"I really don't want to push you, John, but we have found a new caretaker and he'll want to move in sooner or later..."

John sighed again. The convent's brand of natural remedies had been in so high a demand recently that he had been asked to dedicate all his working hours to the production of teas and salves, and the nuns had been looking for another man interested in both the caretaker job and the rooms that went with it among the homeless who visited the shelter regularly.

"Yes, I know, and I'm really sorry for the delay and for causing you trouble, but..."

He stopped walking, running a hand over his face, thinking of how best to phrase his explanation. "I know this will sound strange, but...I do love Vivian and I... understand that she...loves me and wants to be with me, but her flat is so small and I don't want to impose myself on her and sometimes...I also need a bit of solitude."

He grimaced sheepishly. The Mother Superior offered him an understanding smile. They had found temporal accommodation for the new employee in an unused storeroom in the shelter and he had settled in quite happily and wouldn't mind staying there for another couple of weeks; however, for what she had in mind it was better not to tell John about this solution.

They had crossed the garden and were standing in front of a high wall surrounding what seemed like another garden at the back of an old house that looked uninhabited. John had often seen this wall and the house and had wondered what it was or who it belonged to, but he had never been interested enough to actually find out.

Now to his surprise Mother Mary Barbara produced a set of keys and opened the narrow wooden gate in the wall as if this was the most natural thing to do. She grinned at his look of puzzlement.

"I'd like to show you something. Please follow me, John."

They entered a small back yard, paved, with an abundance of weeds growing in the cracks between the flagstones and came to the back door of the house. The nun unlocked the door, which opened reluctantly and with a grating noise. They were met with an overwhelming, musty smell of dust and stale, damp air, which grew stronger as they entered a small passage leading to a scullery and a large kitchen still furnished with cupboards, a large range and, right in the centre, a massive wooden table, its top crisscrossed with the scars of hundreds of meals prepared here. Then another passage, a narrow staircase leading to the hall and the front door.

"Where are we? What is this house?" John asked, looking around, taking in the faded splendour of the carved wooden banisters, the black and white tiles on the floor and the art-deco stained glass fanlight above the door.

"It is the origin of our convent. When the order was first established in Edinburgh in the 19th century there were only a handful of nuns, and they lived here, before the larger buildings and the chapel were completed. Later the house was used for storing old and disused furniture and the convent's old files and documents, but when an expert from the National Archives of Scotland came round to help with sifting and cataloguing them, he warned us that we would have to move everything because otherwise the dampness here would destroy the paper eventually. Since then the house has been empty. We've tried to put it on the market, but it is not in a very good state and the neighbourhood is not very attractive either, so we weren't offered the price we asked and decided to keep it for the time being."

John was running his hand along the smooth wood of the banisters; he regarded the Mother Superior with a speculative smile.

"And now...you're thinking of selling the house to us?"

He laughed when the nun blushed slightly.

"Well, a house this size...Mother Superior, you of all people must be informed about my salary – despite the obvious need of refurbishment and the unattractive neighbourhood, the house will still be beyond our means, I'm afraid."

"Not selling, John, letting. For a nominal rent if you agree to undertake the restoration work. It is ideal, isn't it? Lots of space, should you desire your 'bit of solitude', as close to your workplace as you can get..."

"Indeed, Mother Superior. It's too good to be true. There must be a catch somewhere."

"Well, John, your landlord, as it is, will be the convent and the convent is part of the Holy Catholic church, hence we adhere to its dogmas and consider its holy sacraments to be the pillars of civilized life..."

She paused, waiting for John to take the hint and react, but his face remained blank. He was listening politely, but had no idea what she was aiming at. With an impatient little sigh Mother Mary Barbara continued.

"One of the holy sacraments is marriage. If a man and a woman decide to stay together, to live together, we expect them to be joined in wedlock; according to this we can only accept a married couple as tenants of our property."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"You can't honestly assume that...Mother Superiror, this is the twenty-first century..."

The nun shrugged.

"Our dogmas are for eternity."

John laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair, completely at a loss for answers.

Mother Mary Barbara watched him for a minute, before putting a placating hand on his arm.

"Does the idea seem so odd, John? From what I've seen...Vivian and you...have you never considered it at all?"

John tore his arm away, turning his back on the nun, who regarded him sadly.

"You don't have to decide right now, John. Think about it, discuss everything with Vivian...Meanwhile...shall we have a look at the rooms upstairs?"

John snorted angrily, but followed her upstairs, slowly, as if against his will...

He worked late this evening, pouring over his notes on the various experimental recipes for a salve that would heal bruises, trying to keep his mind busy and to prevent his thoughts from running in circles and stumbling over the word 'marriage' over and over again. His furious disbelief at the nun's blatant attempt of blackmailing them into 'the Holy Sacrament of Marriage' had died down and left him musing on the idea of marriage itself. Vivian and he had never talked about the possibility. There was the mutual understanding that they loved each other and wanted to stay with each other. Did they need legal documents for that? Marriage would mean involving the Ministry and its bureaucracy in something very private and personal, a situation he wanted to avoid at all costs. He had never been to the Ministry again since the day they had officially admitted him into the wizarding society. Moreover, marriage would bind her to him for life. Would she agree to that? He knew she loved him; however, would her feelings still be the same in five or ten years' time? He wasn't an easy man to love and to live with, and sometimes he still couldn't help wondering why on earth she had fallen in love with him at all...

Of course, Mother Mary Barbara's offer and her idea of making marriage a condition for letting them rent the house were preposterous in the first place. Preposterous, ridiculous, an anachronism in modern times. Perhaps he should just forget about it, ignore the whole thing and not tell Vivian anything. They would find a flat eventually...

With a deep sigh, he scanned his notes for a last time and started sorting them into a card box, carefully, slowly, scrupulously checking the right order. He knew he was playing for time, delaying his return to Vivian's flat as long as possible, and he would have preferred to spend the night in his own quarters, reaching some decision before having to meet her face to face and break the news to her, but he had promised to come and knew she would be hurt by any last minute excuses.

It was past 8 o'clock when he finally arrived to the delicious smells of cooking coming from the kitchen.

"Severus! About time. I'm starving," Vivian's voice greeted him from the living room. He muttered something about not having managed to leave earlier and was relieved when her reaction showed only slight annoyance and not the explosion of anger about a spoilt meal he had been expecting.

"You're lucky that it's only soup," she said, passing him on her way to the kitchen, "I could keep it warm. It's a new recipe: Thai style, with chicken."

Their conversation during dinner followed the usual lines, their days, their work, the flat they were looking for. Severus listened rather than talked, he was too preoccupied with Mother Mary Barbara's suggestion; however, he couldn't help noticing that Vivian's behaviour was different somehow, she spoke too fast, used too many gestures, she was so deliberately bright and bubbly. What was wrong with her? Did she sense that something was wrong with him?

When they had finished eating, they loaded the dishwasher and Vivian took a long time wiping down the sink and the worktop. Finally, when everything was absolutely spotless, she draped the dishcloth over the drying rack carefully, much too carefully for so simple an action. John watched her, still wondering what was on her mind.

She cleared her throat.

"How are marriages contracted in the wizarding world?"

John's heart missed a beat. What was she up to? Was it a coincidence?

"What?" he spluttered.

"Marriages between wizards – how are they contracted?"

"Marriages? But how...what...why are you interested in that?"

She shrugged.

"Don't know, just an idea."

John grimaced. Even though she still had her back to him and was studying the sink intently, he knew that she was lying, but decided to play along. He managed to sound calm, even a little bored.

"Just an idea...I see. Well, it's a ceremony at the Ministry, I think. For more detailed information you should ask Arthur or Molly. They are the experts."

"Oh, yes. Well...and if a wizard marries a Muggle...?"

He froze, pierced by a sudden stab of revelation.

"If a wizard marries a Muggle...," he repeated weakly, paused and then his fist hit the worktop with a loud bang, dislocating the lid of a cooking pot, which tumbled to the floor with a metallic crash. When the noise had stopped, John suddenly started laughing.

Vivian had turned and stared at him, shocked by these unexpected outbursts of both violence and inexplicable mirth.

"This is unbelievable!" John gasped. "She didn't trust me! Has this f..., has Mother Barbara talked to you as well? Has she... has she shown you the bloody house?" he asked, trying to control his voice while massaging his bruised knuckles.

"Yes," Vivian answered carefully, "why...how do you...oh, I see. She has made the same offer to you."

She blushed and closed the lid of the bin with unnecessary force.

"What does that nun think she's doing? We don't need a matchmaker! It's not for her to meddle in our lives!"

She stopped, breathing hard, at a loss for further words.

They both remained immobile, not looking at each other, painfully aware of an uncomfortable silence spreading in the small kitchen.

"So what do you think..."

"What's your opinion..."

They broke off their simultaneous questions, turning towards each other, hesitant about how to continue.

"The idea seems so silly..," Vivian started again.

"It's blackmail...," John interrupted.

"But the house is ideal...", she continued.

"It needs serious refurbishment...," he cautioned.

Again they paused, looking at each other helplessly. John swallowed hard.

"Would you mind being married to me?"

Vivian's mouth went dry, her heartbeat was drowning every thought. Get a grip! she berated herself. Breathe! Would she mind being married to him? Entering a legal bond? Living with him for the rest of her life, 'for better or for worse'? Never before had she contemplated marriage, and now... But she loved him, didn't she? She wanted to be with him, so a marriage certificate wouldn't make any difference. It was just a piece of paper, or whatever wizards used for official documents, unimportant, a mere formality; their feelings for each other were what mattered most. Did she love him, really love him? The answer was 'yes', 'yes', 'YES'.

"No, John, I wouldn't mind."

He studied her for a long time, his eyes unfathomable, until Vivian couldn't bear it any longer.

"What about you? Would you mind being married to me?"

She forced herself to hold his scrutinising stare and wait for his answer. When it came, his voice was hoarse and barely audible.

"No, I wouldn't."

He made a step forward and took her hand.

"Vivian, do you want to marry me?"

"Yes, John, but..."

His jaw tightened.

"...I want to make it absolutely clear that I don't agree to marry you just because of the house," she said defiantly. "I want to marry you because I love you."

His jaw unclenched, his lips trembled. He looked at her and just nodded, his grip tightening on her hand.

"God knows whether I'll be able to make a good husband."

"Well, I know, I won't be able to make the perfect wife."

The corners of his mouth twitched.

"Fine. And as that's settled then – shall we fix the date?"

With a desperate little laugh, she wrapped her arms around him.

"God knows, I absolutely hate letting Mother Mary Barbara have her own way with this, but...oh damn, I love you so much, John."

_Thanks to Ms Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	28. Chapter 28

**Twenty-eight**

There was a terrible thunderstorm outside, the wind howling around the castle towers, which were spot-lighted by vicious bolts of lightning every few seconds, squalls of rain beating hard against the windowpanes. In the headmistress's office the heavy curtains were drawn, cutting the room off from the turmoil outside, turning it into an island of warmth and comfort, softly illuminated and warmed by dozens of candles along the walls and the flames of the fireplace.

"Here it is," Minerva McGonagall said, her finger coming to rest on the entry at the bottom of a short, alphabetical list of names. She turned and lifted the paper for the portrait behind her to see.

'John Smith and Vivian Baker, Edinburgh'

The white-haired wizard in the painting adjusted his half-moon spectacles and leaned forward to read the announcement. He nodded slowly. Yes, here it was, one of three marriages contracted in the Scottish Ministry of Magic during the last month.

Raising his head, he sat back in his armchair, sighing deeply.

"Six words looking so inconspicuous, yet carrying so much weight. What a pity that only a few people know about their significance."

Minerva McGonagall folded the newspaper, placed it on her desk and echoed the sigh.

"It's the way he wants it, Albus. You have no idea how much effort it took to convince him that inviting a few friends and Vivian's family was not a waste of time and money."

"But in the end he agreed?"

"Well, Vivian agreed and more or less dragged him along. As it is the custom with many mixed marriages where the Muggle side is to be kept ignorant about the magic of one of the partners, they had two ceremonies; the first one was at the Ministry early on Friday morning with myself and Arthur as witnesses; and later that day they had a second one at a Muggle Registry Office, this time with Diana and Vivian's brother as witnesses."

"Not in the chapel at the convent?"

"No, as much as Diana would have liked it, it was impossible, as neither Vivian nor John are Catholic or were willing to convert to that faith for the occasion; so they preferred a civil ceremony, after which we had the reception in their new house next to the convent. Most of it still resembles a building site, but they had managed to get the downstairs rooms more or less ready in time. There were only about thirty guests, most of them from Vivian's side, and Diana's nuns from the convent helped with the catering, it was all very intimate and pleasant – and I think at the end of the day even Sev... John enjoyed it."

She chuckled at the reminiscences.

"You know, Vivian's parents seem to be extremely pleased with her choice of husband and really have taken John to their hearts. Her mother is a GP and very much interested in John's herbal remedies, and her father is a retired solicitor and hobby historian who respects John as a sensible man, a scientist with a secure job and a regular income, in short, as the ideal son-in-law. Obviously Vivian had fallen for the artist types before and went from one unhappy affair to the next, making her parents think she would never settle down with a family at all."

The old wizard fumbled in the pockets of his robes for a handkerchief and used it to blow his nose vigorously. Then he coughed several times to clear his throat before speaking.

"A wife, a family that accept him into their midst...it is indeed a new life for Severus."

"John," Minerva McGonagall corrected him automatically.

Outside the storm had lost its fury, was reduced to heavy rainfall accompanied by the occasional peal of thunder.

The painted man sighed again. Minerva McGonagall regarded him with a look of compassion.

"He has never talked to you, has he?"

The old man shook his head.

"No, he hasn't. Kingsley offered him my painting at the Ministry, but Severus, sorry, John, said that it was hard enough for him to put up with those wizards who were still alive; he had no intention whatsoever of interacting with those who were dead. He said as far as he knew I had been the meddlesome machinator in the miserable existence he had left behind and didn't want to be reminded of, therefore for him there was absolutely no reason to contact me."

"Meddlesome machinator," the witch repeated thoughtfully, "well, given the way you used him in your plans to vanquish You...Voldemort, this reaction is understandable, isn't it?"

The old man sighed again.

"I do understand him, I really do, but nevertheless I must say I can't help feeling disappointed and sad..."

He took off his glasses and polished them with a large white handkerchief, a far-away expression in his blue eyes.

Minerva McGonagall was sitting quietly, blinking away a few tears of compassion. Outside the rain had stopped and the crackling of the fire remained the only noise in the silence of the room.

"Well..." The man in the portrait put his spectacles back on and focused on the witch in front of him. "It's good that he has found a new life. And perhaps one day...how old is Vivian, by the way?"

Minerva McGonagall frowned.

"In her late thirties, I think. Why do you want to know?"

"She's not too old to have children, even by Muggle standards, is she?"

"No, I don't think so. But...Oh, no...Albus!...talking about 'meddlesome machinators'... I hope you won't...Keep OUT of their life, will you!"

She shook her head vigorously, giving the portrait a look of stern disapproval.

The white-haired wizard smiled back, a twinkle in his blue eyes, his face a picture of innocence.

"Minerva, my dear, what do you take me for! Besides, I'm only the portrait of a poor old, dead wizard with no influence whatsoever in the world of the living."

"Och, aye," she replied, and the two syllables contained a lot of profound Scottish scepticism.

Having finished their monthly meeting about the situation of the order's shelter for the homeless, the two young male volunteers and Sister Mary Angela, who was in charge of the soup kitchen, left the Mother Superior's office, while Sister Mary Claire was staying behind, enjoying a private cup of tea with Mother Mary Barbara and a little pleasant gossip about their favourite topic: John Smith.

"Vivian came to see me yesterday," Sister Mary Claire said into the companionable silence following their first exchange of information.

Mother Mary Barbara looked up in surprise. Vivian rarely entered the convent on her own, sometimes she visited John at his workplace, sometimes she and John had been over for tea, but she had never come to see one of the nuns all by herself...

Sister Mary Claire enjoyed the effect she had created and waited a bit longer before continuing.

"She wanted my opinion as a doctor..."

The older nun's eyes grew wide in alarm.

"Dear me! She isn't ill, is she? Or John?"

Sister Mary Claire shook her head and smiled.

"No, they are fine. She wanted to know if it was advisable to have a first child at 39."

"A first... She's pregnant then! Oh, Hail Mary, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb...A baby! Isn't that marvellous! What did you tell her?

"Well, I told her about the risks, of course, but as she seems to be perfectly healthy there is no reason why she shouldn't go ahead with the pregnancy."

"But of course! What about John? What does he say?"

"John doesn't know yet. Vivian had just learned about the pregnancy and obviously the doctor she'd been to scared her senseless with a long list of everything that can go wrong if the mother is over thirty-five..."

"Nonsense! There are so many older mothers nowadays. I hope Vivian didn't believe the scaremongering old fool of a doctor!"

"That's why she came to me, wanted to have a second opinion. And she really wants to have the baby."

Mother Mary Barbara smiled, satisfied, while settling back in her chair and taking another sip from her teacup.

"A baby! There's nothing more amazing than a newborn child. It's a gift of God. It will be a pleasure for all of us...I'm looking forward to caring for it,..."

Sister Mary Claire, frowning in a mixture of amusement and alarm, cold-heartedly interrupted the Mother Superior's childcare plans.

"Well, I don't think Vivian and John would appreciate having us gushing about the child all over the place and interfering with their parenting."

Grimacing wryly, the older nun put her empty teacup down with a loud thud.

"Oh, well, yes, right, but they'll need a babysitter from time to time, won't they? And as we are living next door..."

Sister Mary Claire suppressed a grin, wondering about the sudden awakening of motherly instincts in the older woman who had never before shown any signs of being overly fond of young children.

Vivian and John were celebrating the end of the decorating work with a cup of tea. Sitting on two folding red plastic chairs amidst a cluster of paint pots, rollers and brushes on the cover-sheeting protecting the floorboards of the spare bedroom, they admired their work, easing their aching arms and backs and gratefully sipping the hot liquid.

John removed his old, paint-splattered baseball-cap and ran a hand through his hair. On a whim he'd had it cut short for their wedding, but now it was growing long again, although still not long enough for being kept in a pony tail.

"I hope I won't have to take a paint brush in hand for the next ten years!" he moaned, his thumbnail scratching at the splashes of dried paint on the cap absent-mindedly.

Although he had discovered a spell that was intended to make the paint rollers do the job all by themselves, this only had resulted in very patchily painted walls and in paint being splashed all over the room, forcing them to return to the traditional Muggle handiwork.

"My sentiments exactly," Vivian laughed, flexing her stiff fingers.

"This house is too big for us. What do we need four spare bedrooms for?" he sighed in mock exasperation.

"Well, you wanted a study, didn't you?" she retorted.

He grunted an affirmative.

"But that still leaves us with three of them."

This time Vivian didn't respond at once. She kept looking at the mug in her hands, biting her lower lip.

After some time she cleared her throat.

"We'll need at least one of them in the near future," she said, still concentrating on her milky tea.

"Sorry?"

John cocked his head, looking at her suspiciously.

"Are we expecting visitors? Some relative of yours? Your whole family was here for the wedding, I can't understand why they would want to visit us again so soon."

Vivian looked up, shaking her head in mock reproach.

"Soon? Our wedding was almost ten months ago. But don't worry, there won't be any visitors; however, 'family' covers it in a way... John – we are going to have a baby."

"What?"

Was it shock, disbelief, fear ...Vivian wasn't sure what exactly he had conveyed with this syllable.

She shrugged helplessly.

"I'm pregnant."

"You're pregnant," he repeated in a flat voice, more like a parrot imitating the sounds than a man understanding their meaning.

"John, don't look at me like this! I don't know what went wrong..."

Putting his mug down next to his chair carefully, he got up and stood in front of her, removed the mug from her paint-encrusted fingers, took her arms and gently pulled her to a standing position, holding her at arm's length, his black eyes searching her face. She felt him draw a deep, shuddering breath.

"What's wrong with having a baby?" he asked softly.

"Wh...what?" she spluttered. "Nothing, I just thought...I feared...oh, John, you are not angry?"

"Angry? No, why on earth should I be angry?"

"Well, I thought..."

His eyes were probing into hers, forcing her to focus on him.

"You thought I detested children, didn't you?"

Abruptly he let her go, turning away with a bitter laugh.

"You know about my miserable childhood and naturally you are informed about the notion that adults who didn't experience love and care in their youth are unable to give them to their own children in turn. Moreover, as we all know and as hundreds of Hogwarts alumni can testify, in my teaching years I was a sarcastic bastard in the classroom. And from all that you deduce that I lack the proper qualifications for being a father, don't you?"

He walked over to the window, instinctively stepping around an abandoned paintbrush on the floor, and stood with his back to the room, staring out into the growing darkness.

"But on the other hand, it all belongs to the past, a past you among others keep telling me I've left behind. In the two years of ignorance about myself I often longed for a family, wondered if I had children somewhere, what it was like to be a father, to raise children, to care for them, to give them love and understanding, to teach them, to help them become confident and happy... I've never dared talk about it, never told you, but this is something I would really like to find out...see if I can do it despite my past. And... I promise I'll try hard and do my best."

He swivelled round.

"Vivian, this is wonderful, it is the most precious gift you could have given to me."

She stared at him, deeply moved and completely at a loss for words. Then, after an endless moment, she decided that the only way of avoiding bursting into tears of compassion was to force herself to some light-hearted reply.

"Children?" she asked in mock indignation. "Hang on, don't become over-enthusiastic, dear husband. Right now I'm still having difficulties trying to come to grips with the idea of having just one child."

He laughed softly, appreciating her unsentimental reaction, crossed the distance between them in three long strides and wrapped his arms around her.

"When?" he asked.

"In March, I'm only 9 weeks gone."

"March," he said, gently placing a kiss next to a small white spot of paint on her forehead, "so we have plenty of time for redecorating the bedroom overlooking the garden. It is the largest one and ideal for a nursery. But we've painted the walls white, definitely too cold a colour for a small child, don't you think?"

_Thanks to Ms Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	29. Chapter 29

**Twenty-nine**

"We must contact his parents. This is serious."

Drawn and tired, headmistress Minerva McGonagall was standing at the end of the narrow hospital bed, looking at the unconscious form of the black-haired boy under the bedcovers. His pale face was disfigured by blistered, angry red and purple patches, his breathing was fast and shallow. Poppy Pomfrey's wand performed another diagnostic spell – no further clues, no improvement.

The matron pocketed her wand angrily, muttering once again that she didn't understand what teaching at Hogwarts had come to. Accidents in potions classes were common nowadays as more and more students seemed to neglect the most basic rules of handling cauldrons and potions. Burnings were frequent (didn't they know that hot cauldrons were, well, hot?), followed by cuts (were students getting clumsier, unable to handle knives properly?); she also had to deal with the consequences of exploded cauldrons and spilled potions and almost daily there were students developing rashes caused by carelessly handling potion ingredients without wearing protective gloves. She had become familiar with these injuries and could cure them almost on auto-pilot. In the few cases where she wasn't sure what to do the teacher would help her out, telling her what had caused the damage. This case, however, was different: A cauldron had exploded, dousing its owner with its contents, an almost completed, straightforward skin-hardening potion, Professor Beetlewings had said. Not very much in demand since the end of the war, except with professional dragon keepers, but still part of the syllabus. The injuries should have responded to her spells easily, except they didn't. The boy's skin remained scabbed and infected, and he was still unconscious, which was highly unusual. Something definitely was very wrong, and nobody was able to say what or why. Not even Professor Beetlewings, young and inexperienced, who was a nervous wreck. He had been pacing the hospital wing for hours, wringing his hands and repeating 'I don't understand it, he's the best student in his year' over and over again, until Madam Pomfrey had persuaded him to take a calming draught and retire to his quarters.

Professor McGonagall removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose, letting out a deep breath.

"What about his brother?"

"He's fine, thinks it's all very exciting... I sent him back to his common room and to his friends."

Professor McGonnagal sighed. It was no use postponing the inevitable.

"I'll write to his parents."

With a last glance at the motionless boy, she turned and left the hospital wing for her office, facing the disagreeable task of informing John Smith that his son had been severely injured in an accident in his potions class.

They hurried up another staircase and Vivian, badly out of breath, clutched her side to ease the stitches. Somehow, she had the impression of having been out of breath ever since the impatient tapping and screeching noise outside their bedroom window six hours ago. An owl – John had told her about this way of sending letters and parcels common among wizards, although he never used it. John had untied the parchment roll, rewarded the owl, and had started scanning the letter, reaching for his clothes halfway through.

"This is from Minerva. We must go to Hogwarts. Jeremy's ill." He had looked up, his face anxious and pale.

They had dressed in a hurry, donning whatever clothes came into their hands and after a quick cup of coffee John had driven them to the boundaries of Hogwarts. Most of the trip had been done in silence, John fiercely concentrating on the road, Vivian clutching the seat, praying for the other traffic to keep out of John's dangerous overtaking manoeuvres. Years ago he had refused the Scottish Ministry of Magic's offer to take apparation lessons and obtain a license, saying that he was perfectly content with the Muggle ways of transport. From his impatient and exasperated way of driving, however, she guessed that right now he deeply regretted this decision. Apparition would have shortened their journey considerably.

There was a car park for visitors wishing to see the ruins of a medieval castle. They left the car there and walked half a mile to the boundaries of Hogwarts school. The huge wrought-iron gates opened at his touch and, without bothering to follow the sweeping drive, they crossed the vast expanse of dewy lawn up to the castle's huge front door, Vivian always at a run, trying to keep up with John's long strides. In the entrance hall they were greeted by Minerva McGonagall and Hector Adder, a tall, aristocratic looking man, the current head of Slytherin house.

Some quick questions and answers confirming what had happened were exchanged, and then they were on their way up endless staircases, hurrying through a maze of echoing corridors; John seemed to know the way by heart, he stormed on, tireless, the others struggling to keep up with his pace.

And then the hospital wing, an exhausted and worried looking matron and Jeremy in his bed, unconscious, his skin scabby and infected.

"A skin-hardening potion, you said?" John asked a tubby young man with a head of curly brown hair, who had been waiting for them. The potions master.

"Yes, Sir," the man answered, swallowing hard and running his tongue over his dry lips.

Vivian noticed that his hands were shaking.

"Jeremy was the best in his class, so I set him this task. I know it is very advanced stuff but he was up to it. Most of the others were doing a shrinking solution, some were even brewing a simple memory-enhancing draught."

"You let them do different potions at the same time?" John asked incredulously.

The potion master beamed.

"Oh, sure, it's the latest trend in education, allowing the students to find their own pace of learning. Some fourth-year students must do simple potions again and again to gain expertise, others – like your son – are able to progress to advanced recipes, the teacher allowing them as much freedom as possible, acting as an advisor rather than..."

"But how do you keep track of what they are doing? If they all work on something different, it must be very hard to spot mistakes and prevent accidents," John replied, frowning incredulously.

Professor Beetlewings smiled sheepishly.

"Well, the idea is that students develop a sense of responsibility for what they do..."

"Pah," Madam Pomfrey interrupted fiercely, "fact is that the number of accidents has soared since these new-fangled methods were introduced. I used to have one or two cases a month when you...eh, when Professor Snape and Professor Slughorn were teaching. I wonder why parents don't complain more often. Fortunately, injuries usually aren't as serious as this, but nevertheless..."

"Is there nothing that can be done?"

Vivian was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her son's hand. She looked at the witches and wizards around her, willing them to come up with some magical solution.

"The boy must have made a mistake with the potion," Minerva McGonagall suggested.

"Oh no, not Jeremy. He's a natural in potions. He wouldn't make mistakes. Never," Professor Beetlewings protested.

"Have you kept his workplace the way he left it?" asked John

"Well, the cauldron exploded...I had to tidy things up, didn't I?"

John closed his eyes, praying for patience.

"The ingredients he used...perhaps some of them are still... not tidied up?" he sounded like a man without much hope.

"Oh yes, of course, there was no time, so I dumped what was left of them in the storeroom, they are untouched.

"Thank God for small mercies! What are we waiting for? Let's go."

John was on his way out of the hospital wing, dragging a very bewildered Professor Beetlewings along.

Vivian's eyes had returned to her son's immobile form.

"Will he be alright?" she asked timidly.

"If someone can find the cure, it's Severus Snape...eh, John, I mean," Poppy Pomfrey stated firmly.

"Aye, that's right," Professor MacGonagal confirmed with utter conviction.

Vivian stayed in the hospital wing, sitting next to her son's bed, watching him, hoping for a sign of improvement, but his condition remained unchanged. From time to time she got up to walk over to the window and look out, glancing absent-mindedly at the breath-taking view of the glittering lake against the stark backdrop of steep and menacing hills, wishing things would change for the better while her back was turned. But they never did. Madam Pomfrey offered her food, but she couldn't eat, tea was the only nourishment she accepted. In the afternoon, after his lessons, Nathan, their younger son, came to see his brother and they waited and watched in anxious silence until he left at dinnertime. So the day passed, it was getting dark, and still there was no improvement and no word from John. When Vivian nodded off in her chair, Madam Pomfrey showed her a bed in the private room next door, which was reserved for members of staff. Too tired to argue Vivian accepted the offer, kicked off her shoes and climbed under the covers fully clothed.

She slept fitfully, waking every hour until the first light of dawn was seeping through the curtains; then she finally fell into an exhausted sleep, only to wake again soon when someone sat on the mattress next to her.

"What?" she muttered, still half asleep.

"Shshsh...it is I. All is well."

John. Vivian snuggled up to him instinctively, letting him cradle her in his arms. Only then she suddenly remembered.

"Jeremy. How is he?"

"Asleep and healing."

"You could help him?"

"Yes, of course," he said, and Vivian couldn't help smiling at the hint of smugness in his voice. She started to disentangle herself from the blanket.

"I want to see him."

"There's nothing you can do at the moment, belief me. He's asleep. Let's get some rest, too. I'm tired."

The dim light revealed the lines etched deeply in his pale face and the dark shadows of stubble on his cheeks and chin, but his eyes were reassuringly calm and confident. Obediently Vivian lay down again and settled in his arms. He fell asleep almost at once, his regular breathing changing into soft snoring noises, convincing her that indeed all was well, and she relaxed and allowed herself to drift towards oblivion too.

"So you, a mere fourth-year student, believed you could find a way to improve a potion experts have considered perfect for centuries? Therefore you experimented with dragon scales without telling your teacher? Do you have any idea how dangerous this was? You could have harmed the entire class."

It was almost noon. Jeremy had woken from a refreshing sleep and was now enjoying a light breakfast of toast and marmalade. Apart from the slight traces of teenage acne, his skin looked smooth and healthy again. John stared at his son furiously, making him blush with shame.

Vivian felt sorry for the boy, whose ears were unable to detect the well-hidden pride in his father's angry voice, but she preferred not to interfere with her husband's lecture.

"Professor Beetlewing was too busy helping the others..."

John snorted derisively.

"....and if I had asked him he probably wouldn't have allowed me to use the scales," Jeremy finished his sentence, refusing to meet his father's eye.

"As indeed he shouldn't if he takes his responsibilities seriously," John replied grimly. "At least he should have noticed that those scales were past their use-by date, which, as you learn in your very first potion lesson, means that they can be dangerous and mustn't come near a cauldron at all."

Jeremy grimaced, looking extremely guilty and embarrassed.

"I didn't check."

Once again his father snorted.

"Oh, Dad, don't you see...it didn't occur to me that potion ingredients in the school stores could be past their use-by date."

"Actually, they shouldn't. They must be checked prior to the beginning of term. That's where Professor Beetlewing has completely neglected his duties and..."

Jeremy pushed away his breakfast tray, looking at his father in alarm.

"But Dad...you don't think of filing a complaint, do you? It was my fault and I don't want him to get into trouble with the school governors...they could sack him..."

"As I said, he grossly neglected his duties; the outcome could have been disastrous..."

"He's a very good teacher, everybody likes him...please, Dad...Mum."

Vivian watched her husband's face become stony and felt a pang of sympathy. Was he thinking of his own years as a teacher, when, as she had gathered from his memories, no one would have spoken on his behalf, no one would have said that he was a good teacher? She reached over and put her hand on John's arm.

"Jem is fine, I don't think we should..."

"Jem is fine, because _**I**_ reminded his teacher to have a look at the ingredients Jem used, because _**I**_ checked the use-by-dates and because _**I**_ worked into the night to find an antidote..."

"Dad, please..."

"You are right, John, and we all appreciate what you have done, we really do, but don't let yourself be carried away by your anger, don't be vindictive, give the man a chance, you don't want to destroy his career, do you? The accident has been a nasty shock for him and he will be more careful next time."

Her pleading eyes met John's hard ones, battling with them, willing him to relent. After a very long moment, his shoulders relaxed and he inclined his head.

"Well, I seem to be outvoted here," he said gruffly.

His wife and son exhaled with relief. And when Poppy Pomfrey arrived some minutes later, accompanied by Nathan, she found them in an atmosphere of relaxed happiness.

"Well, young man," she addressed Jeremy after running her wand over his body in the smooth and casual movement born of long years of routine, "you are very lucky to have such an expert for a father. Here, another dose of the potion he made for you."

The boy emptied the vial obediently, grimacing at the bitter taste.

"You couldn't have made it taste better?" he asked with a shudder.

"No," John replied, a mischievous glint in his black eyes, "the taste is part of the learning process."

Madam Pomfrey met his eyes and her mouth twitched in appreciation before she turned to her patient again.

"I'll keep you here overnight just to be on the safe side, but you are allowed to have visitors and tomorrow you can return to your dormitory. On Thursday you can attend lessons again, I think."

Jeremy grimaced wryly at this prospect.

"By the way, John, Minerva said she would like a word with you and your wife before you leave. In her office."

"Is it about some punishment for me?" Jeremy asked in a small, anxious voice. "I'm not going to be expelled, am I?"

Madam Pomfrey smiled at him.

"I don't think so, no. But some kind punishment will be in order...well, anyway, she didn't tell me, she just asked me to give you the message. Oh, and she likes to use liquorice wands."

John frowned at the matron, then, as understanding dawned upon him, he laughed.

"Good old Hogwarts traditions," he said fondly, ignoring his family's puzzled glances.

_Thanks to Ms Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._


	30. Chapter 30

**Thirty**

The 'liquorice wands' duly persuaded the stone gargoyles to spring aside and give them access to the revolving spiral staircase, which slowly transported the two visitors to the door of the headmistress's office.

"Wizards!" Vivian muttered under her breath, marvelling at the magical security measures.

John grinned apologetically before turning to the heavy wooden door. The smile vanished from his face; Vivian could see his jaw clench and his shoulders stiffen and frowned. What was wrong with entering Minerva's office?

"John?" she started apprehensively, but he shook his head, took a deep breath and knocked twice, listening for Minerva's voice to bid them enter.

The headmistress was seated behind her enormous desk, with her back to a large painting showing a white-haired wizard who seemed to be peacefully asleep. As were all the other portraits in the circular room, the collective snoring creating a steady background of sound in the office. Vivian looked around, shaking her head incredulously. She had seen some magical photos before and was familiar with the fact that the people in them moved and seemed to interact with the viewer, but she had never known them to produce sounds. How could Minerva concentrate on her work with all this noise?

"You get used to it. I must admit, it was a bit annoying at the beginning, but now I just don't notice it anymore," the old witch said with a knowing smile. Vivian forced herself to smile back, albeit wryly. How she hated this disconcerting magical knack of reading other people's thoughts!

"You wanted a word?" John asked brusquely. Instead of sitting down in the second chair next to Vivian's, he had gone to stand by the window, his back to the room. He didn't turn.

"Aye, about Jeremy..."

"You don't have to obtain our permission for punishing him. Give him detention, subtract house points, do whatever you consider appropriate..."

"It isn't about punishment, John. Professor Beetlewings and I have already decided to make him help Hagrid shell fresh dragon scales and prepare them for drying."

"Hagrid has fresh dragon scales?"

Curiosity got the better of John and he turned towards Minerva quickly.

The headmistress smiled, enjoying the effect she had created.

"It is a secret more or less, not even all of our teachers know about it. Hagrid has been keeping a dragon for a couple of years now, with permission by the Ministry, of course. Deep in the Forbidden Forest, with his half-brother Grawp working as its keeper. I was very sceptical about it at first, but we've had no problems so far; I had to put my foot down, however, when Hagrid wanted to make Suzy part of his lessons."

"Suzy?"

"The dragon. She's a female."

"Does Jeremy have to go near this…eh…dragon?" Vivian asked anxiously, not quite sure what to make of the fact that Minerva and John were talking about a creature whose existence she had believed to be restricted to myths and legends in as matter-of-fact a manner as if it were their neighbour's dog.

"No, of course not. Hagrid has a fresh supply of scales at his cottage."

"Jem would consider visiting a real dragon a privilege rather than a punishment," John remarked dryly. "No, I think shelling and drying the scales is a good idea, Minerva, it's nasty work, slimy and smelly."

"Exactly the sort of detention you would have given when you were a teacher, John," Minerva replied, eyeing her former colleague with obvious amusement.

John looked uncomfortable.

You still haven't told us what you wanted to see us for."

"Oh yes, right. The PWC."

"PWC?" John asked.

"Potions World Cup. Jeremy has shown great potential in his potions work. His knowledge and talent are remarkable; he is a credit to you, John. Therefore Professor Beetlewings suggested that he should take part in this competition for the most talented potion students from all over the world. It is to be held for the first time this summer, modelled on similar events Muggles have in what they call natural sciences."

John made an affirmative noise and Minerva continued.

"The first round is going to be in Paris in May, and the great final is in the summer holidays in Salem, Massachusetts."

"Massachusetts," Vivian repeated unhappily. She had been looking forward to having her sons at home during the holidays.

"As he is underage, we need your consent, of course," Minerva said, in a tone that suggested that there was no question of them not giving it. She picked up several pieces of parchment from her desk.

"This is the brochure and this is the application form. You can read them through, while I'm helping the new charms teacher to deal with the havoc Peeves has created in her classroom. This poltergeist is becoming more and more of a nuisance; he seems to be getting cheekier by the minute."

She adjusted her glasses, picked up her wand and left the office.

John handed Vivian one of the brochures. They read in silence.

"It's only a few days in July," she said thoughtfully, "perhaps we could accompany him to Salem, we haven't booked a holiday yet..."

"It's an excellent opportunity for Jem to test his knowledge and his brewing skills... to learn about exotic ingredients and their properties, to try out new methods of brewing... to make new friends and do experiments with students from other countries – it's amazing, absolutely brilliant," John added enthusiastically, scanning the brochure and turning it in his hands as if he couldn't believe what he was reading.

"So?"

"Let's sign the form."

"A good decision, if you ask me," a male voice said.

Vivian jumped, spinning round, looking for the owner of the voice, but there was no one there except John and herself.

John remained quiet, he merely sighed deeply, his attention still on the application form.

"We didn't ask you, Headmaster," he finally said, raising his eyes to the portrait behind the desk. Vivian followed his gaze and gasped. The white-haired wizard was awake now, sitting in his overstuffed purple armchair, alert and very erect, peering at them over the rims of his half-moon spectacles.

"Albus, do call me Albus, Sever...eh, sorry, John."

There was a certain hint of nervousness in the old man's voice and in the way his fingers were fiddling with the ends of his long white beard.

Vivian looked from her husband to the portrait, then to the other portraits on the walls. Their eyes were still closed, they remained motionless; the snoring, however, had stopped completely. Now, this was odd. Did they pretend to be asleep while listening in on the conversation going on in the room? Nosy hypocrites, she thought and couldn't help grinning to herself while she turned her attention to the white-haired wizard again, whose eyes were still locked in battle with John's. The grin faded. Given her husband's notorious stubbornness, and what she had heard about Albus Dumbledore and his role in Severus Snape's life, this could go on forever and turn into something thoroughly unpleasant, unless she, as the only other person present, would do something about it. Coughing softly and trying not to think about the absurdity of talking to a painting, she began to address the former headmaster.

"So you are the famous Albus Dumbledore," she said in the most cheerful voice she could manage, smiling brightly at the portrait, "nice to meet you. I'm Vivian, John's wife."

Being a gentleman, the old wizard immediately tore his eyes away from John and focused on her.

"John's wife. Of course! What a pleasure, Vivian. Nice to meet you at last."

He beamed at her and made a courteous little bow.

"Was it your idea to lure us here?" John interrupted the social niceties, his voice thick with suppressed fury.

"My dear boy – what are you thinking? Minerva wanted to talk to you in private, this is her office, you know; I just happen to be here."

John snorted in disbelief.

"She could have talked to us about the PWC in the hospital wing. It's not so confidential a matter as to require the privacy of her office. Isn't it rather that you happened to suggest asking us to come here?"

The portrait raised an indignant bushy eyebrow and managed to look hurt.

"What do you take me for, John?"

"A meddling old schemer, what else?"

"Now, now, John, these are harsh words. I'm only..."

"Stop the bloody play-acting, Albus. The part of the innocent old fool doesn't suit you."

The portrait sighed deeply.

"Oh, I see...you refuse to indulge the innocent whims of a frail old man..."

Again John snorted vehemently and started pacing the room. Vivian and the painted wizard watched him in silence. Finally, the portrait heaved another deep sigh and raised his hands in surrender.

"Yes, alright, it was I who suggested asking you to come here. Your being here at Hogwarts was a chance not to be missed. I know that you have been deliberately avoiding contact with me for years, John, which has caused me immense grief and sorrow. Oh, I've been telling myself over and over again that you had your reasons, that your anger was justified, and yet it hurt...Don't you understand that when I learned about your survival, I wished to see you again, alive and well...and I wanted to meet your lovely wife... Most of all I wanted to say sorry... Marriage suits you, by the way. You look so much better... "

"You have met Vivian now, you've seen me as well. Let's come to the next item on your agenda: What do you want to say sorry for?" John demanded curtly.

"For the way I treated you, the way I used you for my purposes..."

"For the greater good, I think you used to say it was...", John replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"The greater good? Oh...oh, yes, and it worked eventually, as we all know, thanks not at least to your unwavering loyalty and outstanding courage...but retrospectively we...I...I mean, I ought to have shown some more concern for..."

"Headmaster...Albus, for God's sake, stop babbling."

John had stopped his pacing and was standing opposite the portrait, leaning on the heavy wooden desk in front of him.

"All this belongs to the past, all this concerns a different person. Severus Snape is no more, Albus, he died in the Shrieking Shack many years ago. I am John Smith, whose life started on a wet night in a meadow near Girvan. I'm a married man, I have two sons and a good job at St. Mary's Convent in Edinburgh. I found out that I'm a wizard and registered with the Scottish Ministry of Magic, but I prefer living as a Muggle and I'm perfectly content this way. I have found peace and happiness with my family and my friends, I'm successful in my work. I also have come to terms with what happened to Severus Snape. I can remember him and his life without regrets. I bear no grudge. Against anyone. You did what you thought was right at the time, Albus. Your main concern was freeing the wizarding world from the scourge of the Dark Arts and from domination by the Dark Lord. You succeeded and that's what counts. All of us had to make sacrifices to reach this aim. Ironically, in my case fate decided to do me a favour in the end. So don't feel obliged to apologise, Albus. Let's close the book of the past once and for all."

The old wizard had removed his glasses and was dabbing at his eyes with a large white handkerchief. He kept shaking his head, clearly at a loss for words. Vivian stood next to John, her hand gently touching his back. She, too, was unable to speak. Inside her chest a warm sensation of love and joy had started to spread, taking over her entire body, urged on by her rapidly beating heart. Finally, after all these years, John had learned to let go of his fears and doubts at last...

John straightened, exhaled deeply and put his arm around Vivian's shoulders, just as Minerva returned. The headmistress looked from Dumbledore – still deeply moved and rendered speechless by his emotions, and totally absorbed in polishing his glasses – to John and back again, her eyebrows raised in a wordless, anxious question.

As neither of the two men seemed willing to volunteer an answer, Vivian cleared her throat for a way out of the awkward tension of the situation.

"All is well," she said with a smile of genuine happiness and handed Minerva the application forms. "We've signed them. Thanks for supporting Jeremy and giving him this chance. We'll say good-bye to him now and go back home, I think."

"Well, yes...I...," the headmistress cast another doubtful look at the wizard in the portrait, who had finished the polishing and readjusted his spectacles, still refusing to meet her eyes.

"Yes, we're off," said John. "Good-bye, Minerva... and... Albus... farewell."

The old wizard blew his nose, pocketed his handkerchief, cleared his throat and looked up. His eyes met Vivian's and he bowed again, smiling fondly.

"Good-bye, Vivian, my dear."

Then his gaze turned to John and lingered there, longer and more intensely.

"John, my boy, I'm so glad that you...I'm really...well, thank-you, thank you very much indeed."

Once more he bowed and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling merrily as Vivian and John left the circular office, leaving the headmistress of Hogwarts school staring after them, shaking her head in bewilderment.

"Don't worry, Minerva, John's wife was right, all is well," said the portrait, settling back in his armchair comfortably with a deep sigh of relief, about to close his eyes and go to sleep again.

"Would you mind filling me in of what happened here? How did the two of you make it up? What did you do to make him accept your apology?" Minerva snapped at the painting.

"Well..." the old wizard opened his eyes and frowned thoughtfully, "it wasn't anything I said or did actually...let's say that it was a matter of time being a great healer..."

"I still don't believe it," a bald wizard next to the window exclaimed, "Snape! Who would have thought to see him in this room ever again!"

"And still his old, sarcastic self!" his neighbour, a tiny witch with a mop of unruly black curls, said. "He hasn't changed a bit!"

"Merlin's beard, that's not true. Didn't you pay attention, he has changed!" a formidable witch with iron-grey curls in the painting next to Dumbledore's protested. All the portraits were awake now, some were whispering to each other, all of them eager to express their opinion on what they had just seen and heard.

"Must have if he managed to get himself a wife," an Elizabethan wizard on the opposite wall remarked dryly. "Nobody would have married the greasy git he used to be."

"Don't you dare call him names!" Phineas Nigellis Black, the old Slytherin headmaster interfered. "He was the bravest headmaster Hogwarts ever had and all of us should..."

Minerva McGonagall went over to the window and opened it wide, leaning out to leave the babbling voices of her predecessors behind and breathe the cool spring air. All was well...

The wizarding world was at peace again, both on a public and on a personal level, the number of students attending Hogwarts was rising constantly, soon they would have to hire more teachers for those subjects where classes had to be kept small to guarantee high standards of learning or simply to prevent accidents, soon they would need a second potions master. Perhaps...

Outside in the corridor Vivian grabbed John's arm, stopping him and making him face her.

"Since when have you been able to view your past so calmly?" she demanded.

He answered with an apologetic shrug and a lopsided smile.

"Well, actually...since last night. I was down there in the dungeons, brewing the potion for Jem. It just happened, I suddenly realized the past had become like a book; I could open it, peruse it, experience stories and images as an onlooker – and close it again whenever I wanted to, put it back on the shelf, without its content haunting me any longer. I realized I was free."

"Oh, John, how wonderful! I..."

Overcome with emotion she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

He drew her close, his lips finding hers, caressing, teasing, demanding. Sixteen years of marriage had done nothing to diminish the fascination of his kisses. Once again, she lost herself in his embrace; nothing existed outside his arms, his body, his lips...

It took some time for the indignant noises to attract their attention. They had not realized that they were standing next to a painting, its large gilt frame accommodating a gentleman dressed in a Victorian greatcoat and top hat, the scarlet colour of his face clashing violently with the ginger of his sideburns and carefully trimmed moustache. He was shaking his head, brandishing his walking stick and spluttering in exasperated disbelief.

"Disgusting! And adults, too. Have you not any sense of decency? In a school corridor! At your age! Incredible! Brazen insolence!"

Vivian blushed guiltily; John, however, merely raised an eyebrow at the painted wizard's futile rage and then deliberately turned his back on him, bending his head to kiss his wife again, slowly, gently, making the angry portrait's rantings fade from her consciousness, making her forget everything outside their own private bubble of love and joy.

Somewhere along the line, the Victorian wizard abandoned his attempts to stop them; he stormed out of his frame in protest, on his way to visit the other portraits and alert them to the fact that morals had become shockingly lax at Hogwarts. But before he had completed his round and could return with his entourage of curious and disbelieving friends, John and Vivian had already left the castle and were on their way home.

_The End_

_Thanks to Ms Rowling for letting me borrow characters and plot._

_Dear readers, that's it. For the better part of a year, John and Vivian have occupied my imagination and kept me company whenever I needed a break from work. I enjoyed their company and it was fun interfering with their lives. Now, however, I think the time has come to leave them alone and let them live happily ever after._

_Thank you for staying with me and encouraging me with your reviews._

_Leliha  
_


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